


Incredible Neighborhood Spider-Man

by emmamelon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Incredibles (2004)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Government Conspiracy, Heroes & Heroines, Movie: Incredibles 2 (2018), Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Incredibles 2, Super Genocide, Supers, Syndrome made a mess, Villains, incredible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-05-27 02:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15014459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmamelon/pseuds/emmamelon
Summary: After the legalization of supers, there's nothing to stop Peter Parker from swooping into the legal mess, emotional tangles, and physical strain of delivering justice. As he continues along this path, expectations change, enemies and allies are readily made, and an entire past he has yet to uncover rears its bloody head-- and all he wanted was to be on a poster somewhere.





	1. Of Supers and Khakis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chelsey Dee](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Chelsey+Dee).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!  
> I'm aiming to make this a full-length fic as a personal project, but sharing is caring! I already have a handful of chapters in the works, so give it a little love if you like what you see and I'll crank out some more.  
> Without further ado...

Peter sat at the kitchen table, scraping oatmeal onto his spoon and swirling the glob around in circles.

“Not enough cinnamon?” May sat down with her bowl as he stuffed the bite in his mouth.

“No!” He spoke around the mass of oatmeal. “Ish good.” He swallowed to prove it. May smiled and took a few bites.

“Good. Did you hear the news?”

“Nu-uh,” he mumbled, stuffing a large bite in his mouth.

“They legalized Supers yesterday.”

It was jaw-dropping news. The oatmeal that slid out of his mouth was his testimony, and his ruined pants were his evidence. He could vaguely hear May yelp, reminding him it was picture day and he just spat onto his khakis you can’t wear jeans to picture day can you even hear what I’m saying!

Supers are legalized. Supers are legalized.

He was snapped out of his daze as May shoved jeans in his direction.

“Huh?” He wasn’t seeing her, though, just the door to his room behind her that held his suit.

“I said jeans will have to do. I know it’s exciting, but you need to-” He leapt up before she could finish her sentence and dropped the khakis, hopping into the jeans one leg at a time in the direction of his room.

“Don’t just leave them on the floor- Earth to Peter!”

“Uh- yahuh- just a minute!” He yanked open the closet door and dove into his laundry basket for his tracksuit, tossing a dirty pair of shorts to the side. He nearly tore open his Jansport backpack as he shoved it in the second largest pocket and zipped it up. May was in the doorway a moment later, crossing her arms.

“Hey, look at me.” She bent over and put her fingers through his hair, which had shifted from its careful over-gelled styling. “There, fixed it.”

“Thanks, May,” he leapt up and dashed past her towards the door, then rushed back to give her a hug. “Sorry about the pants,” he mumbled into her turtleneck.

“It’s just one picture. Now go, you don’t want to be late,” she said, rubbing his shoulder and nudging him towards the door. He dashed out without complaint, leaving her standing alone in the living room. She headed back towards the table, but her foot slid on his discarded khakis as she went. “Boys,” she mumbled, picking them up and heading towards the laundry room.

Peter’s world was a blur as he ran to school. He started at a walk, then jogged, but his whole body was consumed with so much excitement he couldn’t help running, overcome by the urge to swing around lampposts and cheer. He took the stairs into Metroville High two at a time, dodging his walking peers as his skin buzzed with the need for action. He practically leapt to his locker, opening it quickly and sticking his arms inside to search for his textbook.

“Peter.” He nearly leapt with surprise, sending his chemistry textbook flying from his locker to free fall onto the floor. Ned held up his hands in defense. “Woah, just me!” Peter managed a breath.

“Hey, Ned- dude, what’s up with your hair?” Ned sighed and touched it with a hand.

“I dunno, my mom said she would put it up, but then she messed it up, then I messed it up more, and eventually we used the whole bottle of gel and gave it a mind of its own.” Peter knelt down, picking up the textbook from the floor. “What has you so jumpy?”

“Uh, y’know, just really excited for, uh, pictures.” He closed his locker a little too hard, and the door bounced back at him. “Ah!”

Ned scoffed as Peter closed his locker this time, slowly, like it might leap out again by itself. “Anyway, did you hear the news?”

Peter bit his lip and started to walk to class on Ned’s left. “News? What news?”

“C’mon, it’s all over! The government legalized supers.”

“Wow, that’s really something, see I didn’t have the TV on last night and-” Whatever excuse Peter was about to develop fell on deaf ears as Ned rambled on.

“-then the ship got stopped right before it hit the building, I saw the live footage, and it was insane. So then they got on trial and the whole thing was finalized, just like that!”

“Yeah, sounds surprising.”

“No kidding, I nearly fell over. Do you know what this means?” Peter’s mind buzzed. “New merchandise! I can’t wait to see what they come up with- maybe even a Lego set if we’re lucky. Speaking of-”

“So when they say legalized, like how legal is it? If someone was just like, enhanced, they can fight crime now?”

Ned pursed his lips. “I mean, I guess. Do you think they need super-permits? Oh, maybe the government has like a database. That would make sense, with the whole Relocation Act managing their identities and merging them back into society.” He nodded as if to affirm himself. “Yeah.. why do you ask?”

“I dunno. I guess I’m just curious if they’ll start to pop up around here, now that it’s okay.”

“How cool is this?” Ned pushed open the door to their homeroom and navigated to his seat. “Do you think we might see Mr. Incredible in the streets now?” Before Peter could reply, Flash’s orange Nike’s were propped up on his desk.

“Meet Mr. Incredible? You know my dad was at the conference where they had the signing?” Flash shot a grin at them, stretching his legs out in the manner that a cat takes over a laptop keyboard.

Peter pushed Flash’s feet off of his desk and dropped his stuff down onto it. “Nope.”

Flash slid from where he was sat atop his desk into the attached plastic chair. “Ned, what did you use to do your hair? A rabid squirrel?” The shrill ring of the bell drowned out what probably would’ve been a lame comeback on Peter’s part. Ned rolled his eyes and sat, absent-mindedly trying to tame the beast atop his head.

Peter tried to pay attention to class, he did, if trying constitutes reviewing his web fluid formula underneath his notes. There weren't any modifications to be made, but staring was all he could do as the day trudged on. The moment he was in Chemistry, his mind went from off topic to off-planet. He went to get hand sanitizer at least three times during the course of the class, each time bringing back an essential chemical off the shelves to hide in his drawer. He could tell it was starting to get suspicious when he got to round three and asked to go to the restroom.

“If you answer the question on the board,” his teacher bargained, waving his hand at the molarity equation.

“1.33 moles,” Peter answered quickly, and he was out of the door before Mr. Brundt mumbled his assent. He jogged to the restroom and back, eyes on the prize that he snatched up on his way back to his seat: salicylic acid and methanol. After some deft swirling and quick measurements, he was left with a beaker full of the sticky web that he capped and dropped in his bag, cushioned by the suit. Although he had mixed it before and tested it in an alleyway- he had the bruises and a destroyed garbage can to prove it- knowing that this time he would get to use it in action elongated each minute to 2:45.

“Peter,” Ned hissed. When that earned no response, he poked Peter with his picture ticket. “Peter.”

“What?” He glanced away from the gym’s clock for a moment, then his eyes adhered to it again.

“You're next,” he said, pushing him towards the camera lady, who looked at him over thick black reading glasses. Peter handed his ticket to her and stood on the footprint outlines in front of the camera.

“Put your hand in your pocket and tilt your head slightly,” she drawled, adjusting the reflector. Peter stood, but kept his head straight, knowing it would look ridiculous if he tilted it. He’s a high schooler, not a begging puppy.

“Tilt it,” she reminded him.

“But-”

“Tilt it.” He tilted his head. The light flashed, triggering his fighting senses so that he stumbled right after it was taken. “Neext.” He stepped back amongst the other students, hoping it caught the ugly head tilt and not the shocked stumbling.

“Hey Penis,” Flash called, “are you scared of the camera, too?” A few others that had seen laughed along with him as Peter beelined for Ned, who was forlornly patting his hair.

“I hope it didn't come out too bad,” he mumbled, pressing down a bit of hair reminiscent of the main boy in Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Peter never managed to read that book; it hit too close to home.

“Either way, your mom will have it on every wall of the house.” Ned groaned. “You're so right. Hey, do you want to use that Smoothie Palace coupon I got after school today? That might make me feel better,” he said, dropping his hand from trying to slap down the spiky mess atop his head.

“Oh- no, I can't, I've got… stuff,” Peter said, knowing full well it was a lame excuse.

“Peter, you never have stuff,” Ned deadpanned, looking into Peter’s soul.

“Well, now I do! Maybe tomorrow?” he squirmed under Ned’s prying eyes.

“Okay, tomorrow.” He put his bag over his shoulders and stood. Peter leapt up; 2:44. Only a minute more then-

He dashed out the second the bell rang, leaving Ned in his dust. He'll feel guilty about that later. For now, he was running as fast as he could to the nearest alleyway and trying to dump his webbing fluid into his shooters while also kicking off his pants. Once he was decked out in his red and blue sweats and his backpack was securely webbed between a dumpster and the wall, he leapt onto the wall, scrambling up as his muscles roared with the adrenaline of his newfound freedom.

Two hours, and still nothing. He'd perched upon three buildings and begun to feel a bit discouraged. When he heard a cat meowing, stuck on the awning of a store, he practically leapt at the chance, scrambling down the side and gathering the grey bundle in his arms.

“Is this anyone’s cat!” He lifted it up a little to show it to the people below. A young woman with pink glasses reached up.

“Down here!” Peter slid down, handing the cat to her. It pounced into the girl’s arms, trying to climb up her flowered blouse. “Thanks,” she smiled, then looked at him strangely, one eyebrow raised. “Do I know you?”

“Nope. I'm Spider-Man. Tell your friends!” And he crawled back up the building with a smile. His first mission! It wasn't a bank robbery, okay, but it could've been life and death for the cat, at least. He swung between buildings like a bird taking its first flight; he smacked into brick walls and bounced off of a window more than once. After webbing up someone's keys that fell through a grate and resetting a fruit stand he’d plowed through, he swung back to the alley where he had left his stuff. The sky was a bit darker than he had planned. Hopefully May would accept Smoothie Palace as a worthy excuse for being out so late. Right as he reached to rip off the webbing, he heard the police sirens.

He was already modifying his excuse as he swung toward the noise. “Sorry, May, Ned invited me over and… we played Pokemon for… three hours,” he decided, following the flashing red and blue to a broken ATM in the wall. He dropped on the ground right before the police arrived.

“Uh- Hi! Robbing ATM’s is bad, you know.” The masked man gave him an incredulous look.

“Who invited pipsqueak? Shoo!”

“It’s Spider-Man!” The second robber groaned, drawing a gun.

“Of course you are. Now go or I’ll-” Peter aimed his webs, bringing the gun into his own hand with a laugh of surprise.

“My aim is- ehem, always this good,” he covered, bringing the duffel bag to his other hand with his other web shooter.

“Dude, is that coming out of you!” Before Peter could express his disgust, the first man yelled, “the Popo’s here, dude!” and made himself scarce. Peter turned to the oncoming officers, setting down the gun and duffel.

“You’re welcome, here you go-” But a few too many guns were pointed his direction. “Wait, this isn’t how this goes, they went that way!”

“Hands up!” A female officer gestured to the gun. “Drop it!” Peter dropped the bag, raising his hands. “Hey, no sweat, let me just-” He webbed the wall of the building behind him and started to swing away as the officers shouted in protest. He looked at the sidewalk, trying to find the real criminals, when he was hit mid-swing in the side, sending him swinging into an alley with a shout of surprise.

“Don’t hit the wall no no!” He shot another web, which would have been perfectly timed, had it not been clinging to a clothesline. It snapped under his weight and he went flying into a wall with a thud, but he stuck onto it. Before he could thank his hands and feet for being so reliable, he was grabbed onto by a pair of hands. “WOAH who’s that!” He remained firmly stuck as the hands continued to pull. He craned his head back to see who was trying to send him back to the Earth, but instead of a body, he just saw arms. Really, really, long arms. “Duuude, that’s so weird, what’s up with your arms?” Then a body came into view, quickly flying as their arms shrunk. “Nope nope nope!” He sent a web at their face, but they bent out of the way. He started to climb upwards, but they kept their firm grip. In a moment of panic, he released the wall, sticking web to the other side, but before it could connect, he was yanked downwards with a yelp. He hit the floor, rolling to the side.

“Stop where you are,” the woman threatened, moving forward. The light of a window cast shadows behind her, illuminating her symbol. Peter had to keep his heart from leaving his chest.

“Hey, you’re Elastigirl! Ehem. I mean. Hello. Elastigirl. I’m Spider-Man.” He saluted. Is that what heroes do? Elastigirl stopped approaching and blinked. “Uh.. sorry… should we like… shake hands instead?” He offered his hand, but she shook her head.

“You were robbing an ATM.” She squinted slightly, like that might reveal his true intentions.

“Actually, I wasn’t. I was stopping the dudes, but then you totally pushed me off course and-” Her arm reached out to grab his arm, but he jumped to the side before she could, backing up. “Hey, did you hear what I said?”

“Look, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but the police saw you with a gun and a bag,” her hand twisted, latching onto his arm again, “so you’ve got to come with me.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, but- hey! What’s that!” He looked past her, then sent a web at her face, but it stuck onto her neck and he pulled it. It stretched a yard long. “Wooooahmygod that’s weird!” He attached the web on her neck to her arm and tied that to the floor. “So sorry, but I gotta go.” He jumped, twisting, then kicked her hand, using the momentum to grab onto the building closest and scaling upwards. She shrank to normal size and pulled on the webbing, but it remained rooted to the floor. In a last-ditch effort, she sent a hand up to grab him, stretching impossibly long and approaching too fast for comfort. He shot webs, but only one made its mark, wrapping her hand like a glove, and he continued his ascent, not pausing to breathe until he had swung all the way back to the alley where he kept his backpack. Only then, when he was tearing his backpack free, did he remember the escaped criminals.

“Dangit,” he muttered, swinging between the familiar skyscrapers with the skill of a real super, yet lacking the tact he saw in the greats, enshrined on the posters of his childhood: the hero he could only hope to become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it!  
> Just to give you a little taste for the future, I'm aiming to bring a villain of my own invention in the mix, so stay tuned.


	2. Of Mustaches and Robbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your response to the last chapter! It's incredibly encouraging to see others enjoying this as much as I have.  
> Without further ado...

Once his absence and visible bruise were explained away, Peter thought the night was over. When he saw the tv the next morning, midway into his cereal, he almost spat out his cheerios. Lucky for him, he managed to slap his hand over his mouth before the waterworks started.

“Those kinds of villains always seem to crop up when Supers are released,” his aunt sighed. “I guess they enjoy the challenge.”

An image of Spider-Man, standing in front of an ATM, gun and bag in hand, was slapped next to a news anchor, but Peter couldn’t register what she was saying over the sound of his own thoughts. The caption read “ENHANCED ROBBER SPOTTED IN METROVILLE.”

“Robber?” He gagged, appetite dying quickly. He set his spoon into his bowl, stopping it just before it slipped under the milk’s surface and placing it on the table.

“You see anyone like that, Petey, and you turn the other way,” May admonished, sitting across from him. He nodded weakly.

“Yeah, promise.” He didn’t remember to object to the nickname, which May seemed to appreciate, smiling over at him.

“You’ll be late. Finish up.” He nodded, taking a few bites so she wouldn’t worry, then walked, dazed, to his room, the caption floating in his vision as he grabbed his backpack.

As soon as he closed his locker, Ned was by his side, chattering incessantly about his Spider-Theories, as he dubbed them. Peter was able to bite back his tongue, but as they entered homeroom, he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Well, maybe he isn’t bad at all!” He inhaled quickly after the misstep, hoping Ned didn’t read too deeply into it. Ned stared for a second, stunned, but then fell right back into rhythm.

“Yeah, actually, what kind of robber wears such obvious colors? But he didn’t look good either, with the mask.”

“Well, maybe he has a… secret identity,” Peter mumbled, sliding into his chair. Ned nodded, staring into the air with careful calculation. His eyes began to light up with the idea, nodding slowly. “Yeaah… this could be the beginning of something big.”

“Bigger than you?” Flash commented, just loud enough, and Peter shot him a glare. Ned, however, shrugged it off, sitting down at his desk. Peter knew it bothered him, but wasn’t sure how to fight in his defense, so they rose to monotonously recite the Pledge of Allegiance instead. The announcements video played on a TV in the corner while Peter mulled over the events, feeling a strange sense of betrayal. The first time he’s come into the open, and that’s his welcome? It’s almost like heroes weren’t made legal at all; not for the little guy, anyway. He twirled his pen, looking up when he hears a “hmph.” MJ is staring at him, tilting up her sketchbook so he can see a drawing of Peter, who is apparently frowning deeply. She matches it with a similar pout. Rolling his eyes, he looks toward the teacher, denying he has ever made that face in his fifteen years of life. He hears her snort and set down the sketchbook again, finally shifting to look at the teacher.

These are the sounds he shouldn’t hear, but he does. The more he tries to push them out, the stronger they seem to become. A foot taps, shaking the ground beneath it. Flash scribbles a note, and it roars like a waterfall. Someone breathes a little too loud and it sounds like the roar of plane engines in the distance. The smacking of lips, the shifting of bodies, the screech of chalk on the board, the groan of chairs scooted forward and back. With every added noise, the chaos grows, filling his ears until his head is full of angry bees, buzzing and running around and scrambling his thoughts until he can’t look at the board anymore. He hides his face in the crook of his arm on the desk. Stop the noise, stops the noise-

“Peter.” His head jerked up. “No sleeping in class.” He opened his mouth to try and explain himself, but Flash spoke instead.

“Bus-ted.” The smile was evident in his voice. 

Peter huffed, wishing he could hide his face again from everyone’s watching eyes, but as soon as the attention had come, it was gone. “Sorry,” he mumbled, thankful to be out of the trance, at the very least.

“Smoothie Palace today, then?” Ned begged before he popped a chicken nugget in his mouth. He peered over at Peter, who was staring intently at his lumpy mac-n-cheese.

“Oh.. uh.. I..” Peter trailed off.

Ned sighed. “Stuff?”

Peter nodded.

“Again?” Ned opened his milk carton. “You know if something’s wrong, we can talk, right? Is it… y’know?” He nodded his head to the side to somehow give a name to the vague suggestion. 

Instantly, Peter understood and shook his head. “No, it’s not about that. We’re fine. I mean, May’s fine. We’re good.”

“If you say so. But you’ve been zoning out big time today. There’s gotta be something.”

“It’s… y’know,” Peter tried grabbing at empty air for an excuse, “a lot of stress, lately. With school, and I was thinking of… getting a job.” He wasn’t wrong. Crime fighting could become a serious dedication.

“A job? Where, Delmar’s?” 

Peter shrugged. “Dunno yet. Just, something.”

“That’s nice of you, to try and help May out.” 

Peter tried not to grimace. Lying to her face about crime fighting? Sounds like a big help. But he couldn’t help thinking… “Yeah, I want to help other people out for a change.” Maybe not May, but people who might be in trouble. That counts for something, maybe. 

The answer seemed to quench Ned’s curiosity. “Let me know how it goes. Maybe I could work there, too, and we could be like tag team janitors.” 

Peter chuckled for the first time today. “Tag team janitors?”

“Yeah, I’ll be like the Mario Mopper and you’ll be Luigi Sweeper.”

“Wait a second, when did you get to be Mario? I’m Mario.”

“No, dude, you’re a Luigi all the way.”

“I don’t even like green!”

“But you do vaguely resemble a bean pole.” Ned stuck his fork in a green bean and held it up for Peter to see before sticking it in his mouth.

“Dude, you just ate me. That’s weird.”

“You’re both weird.” They turned to see MJ, who, despite having her nose in her book, must’ve been keeping one ear open in their direction.

“You’re a stalker,” Ned deflected.

“No. Just observant.” Without any physical indication, it was clear she had zeroed in on the book once more, shutting the two boys out. 

Peter scrunched his nose. “What?”

“Classic MJ.” Ned stabbed a few more green beans, chewing thoughtfully. “To be Mario OR Luigi, we’ve got to be able to grow mustaches.”

“Darn, you’re right. Or tape felt ones to our faces.”

“That,” Ned raised his fork and waved it towards Peter, “is why we’re best friends.” Peter laughed, sticking a forkful of mac-n-cheese in his mouth, then promptly making a face as he swallowed.

“Dude, I think this is whole grain,” Peter moaned, looking down in disappointment.

“How dare they desanctify mac-n-cheese.” Ned shook his head solemnly. “Where does the cruelty end?”

Peter had a similar thought that evening as he munched down on an apple, his mask slid partially up his face. The apple was fine; great, actually, but the events associated with that apple?

Not so great.

He was halfway through, chomping along and appreciating the sunset, when he heard a strange thwip-thwip, like the pattering of feet on the rooftops. That’s impossible, right?

The very next moment, he was grabbed by the ankle, shocked into dropping his apple, which exploded on the pavement below.

“My apple..” He moaned. Where does the cruelty end? Before he could properly mourn his lost fruit, however, he was being held upside down in the air and scrutinized by Elastigirl.

“Oh… hi… about yesterday, I can totally explain-” She shook her head. Behind her, a man appeared, massive, with a bold nose and chin.

“That’s the Spiderboy? What do we do with him?”

“Woah, woah!” Peter waved his hands in front of him. “Nobody’s doing anything- hey! You’re Mr. Incredible! Duuude, that explains a lot. You’re like a truck.”

Mr. Incredible frowned, sharing a look with Elastigirl. “How old is this kid?”

“.. Twenty-five,” Peter attempted. 

Mr. Incredible reached out a free hand towards Peter’s face while she kept his legs held in the air. “C’mon, let’s see it.”

Immediately, Peter flipped. Literally. He twisted his body up, firing webs to link Mr. Incredible’s feet, slinging him across the roof. “Sorry, sir! But not really!” Elastigirl kept her grip on his feet, no matter how much he kicked, so he tried to shoot his webs, to no avail. She seemed to have learned from yesterday, contorting so they didn’t hit her mark. 

After some pulling, Mr. Incredible ripped the webs, storming towards Peter. “Alright, that’s it!” Peter yelped, pulling down a chunk of billboard and swinging it towards Mr. Incredible, using the momentum of the throw to twist one of his legs free, kicking the other hand so he fell to the ground, completely out of her grip, and started to run. The moment before her arms closed in on his ankles, his spidey sense fired up and he leaped, webbing up her hands, before realizing he jumped where there was no ground below him. He fell with a yelp of surprise, quickly recovering, swinging away from the building as fast as he could. Below him, he could see the Incredibile roaring below. Darn, that was fast, Peter thought, wondering how to lose him. No matter how many backways and alleys he took, the car appeared far too soon. He grabbed at his chest, suspecting there must be some kind of tracker on him, but he found nothing, just a quickly mounting fear in his chest that no matter how far he went, they’d still find him. His swinging became erratic in desperation, throwing himself to impossible heights just to get away. That’s when he saw his chance. Rearing its head above Devtech Stadium, a recent and shining addition to Metroville, was a vent.

Peter didn’t think.

He just dove. His body flew into the vent, sliding down at an alarming speed before he began to panic in the darkness, grabbing at the metal sides. Once he slid to a stop, who knows how far up or down, he allowed himself to breathe, shaking slightly. They couldn’t follow him here, could they? But he could already envision her arms stretching down the shaft and grabbing him again, tearing off his mask, so he gingerly attached some webbing to the side and began to lower himself down, breathing shakily, his every breath amplified by the echoing metal. Once he saw a speck of light in the side of the vent, shining onto the opposite wall, he sped up his descent. When he was level, he swung himself gently, crawling across to the opening. A man was seated in the room below him, sipping coffee and talking on the phone.

“Yeah, the game next Sunday is high stakes, but we’re ready. When can those new cleats come in? You know we can’t go on the field with their training ones, it’ll look sloppy… Thanks, Fred. Always a guy I can count on.” He clicked, opening pages with his mouse as he droned on about cleats and astroturf and predictions of rain.

Just then, Peter felt something brush him, like a warm draft sliding past him. He peeled off the mask, trying to take the fog out of his lenses. “Condensation,” he muttered, rubbing spit on them, but the word echoed.

“Fred… let me put you on hold.” The man stood, looking up at the vent where Peter froze, yanking the mask back on his face and pressing himself against the backing of the vent. He held his breath for as long as he could, breathing slowly through his nose when his lungs began to demand oxygen. The man rubbed at his wrinkle wrought face, the stressful job he occupied evident as he squinted. He sighed, turning back to the computer, when he began to gasp, holding onto his throat. He stumbled forward, leaning onto his desk. Papers fell to the floor as he grasped for a hold on something solid, finally grabbing the solid wood of the desk.

Peter couldn’t stand by and watch when the man was clearly in need. He kicked open the vent and dropped in.

“Mr..” He saw the plaque on the desk, “Mr. Derringer, sir, are you alright?” He moved around to see the man’s face but was shocked at how pale he seemed. Purple marks were forming around his throat, and his eyes bulged, gasping still. “I- Are you choking- no, you can’t be, uh, uh!” He scrambled to grab the phone, punching 911 and lifting the landline to his ear, tapping the floor as he listened to the dial tone. Suddenly, the phone clattered to the floor, knocked down by an invisible force. Peter felt a strong gust of wind like a slap in the face, sending him reeling back into Mr. Derringer’s bookshelf with surprising force. Trophies fell to the floor, but he shook his head, clearing it of the shock. Peter scrambled back to the phone on his hands and knees, pulling his mask back to its regular position, but it flew across the room. Peter hit at the air, hoping he might hit the invisible attacker by chance alone.

“Stop it, stop it!” He jumped over the desk but was blown into the other wall. A painting fell from its nail and the frame cracked. “I’m so sorry Mr. Derringer, I hope you can replace that-” he stretched towards the phone, but it hit the wall, busting completely. Tan plastic scattered on the dark grey carpet.

A thud sounded behind him. Peter perked and turned. He’d collapsed to the floor, no longer gasping, leaving the room with an eerie silence.

Peter rushed to the man’s side, feeling his neck for a pulse. He shook his shoulders gently, scanning his face for a reaction. “Mr. Derringer… please… I called 911, they should come…” He grabbed at his neck again. A heartbeat, anything… he found one, but it was weak, and he sighed in relief. As soon as he felt it, it disappeared, and Peter’s breath hitched, hands shaking.

“Do I do CPR? Geez, I dunno! Uh… right, it’s,” he placed his hands on his chest, quietly singing, “uh, uh, uh, uh, staying alive, staying alive, uh, uh, uh, uh” over and over. Thanks, The Office, season five, episode fourteen, for composing the entirety of Peter’s CPR education. No thanks, American public schooling. He kept on for what felt like hours, or at least five microwave minutes when he heard movement in the hallway. He froze in fear, then continued, more afraid that this Mr. Derringer might die if he stopped. When the door flew open again, the vents hissed with a gust of hot air moving through them, and even as the room warmed, Peter’s blood ran cold.

“Freeze,” declared the man opposite him, and Peter’s lower half was suddenly encased in ice.

“No- no- stop, this isn’t what it looks like!” Peter begged, but he didn’t stop pushing at the man’s chest.

“Really? Who knocked this man out? Stop pretending, Spiderboy.”

“You’ve heard of me?” Peter perked up, then cleared his throat. “It’s, ehm, Spider-Man, actually, Mr. Frozone, sir.”

Frozone dragged him out of the way, sliding his iced legs to the side, and continued the CPR. “Hush up until the police get here.”

“Uh.. okay… you know, I really admire all the stuff you do, Mr. Frozone-” Frozone huffed, pushing on the man’s chest. “-and I really don’t want this to be like last time where I get blamed for someone else’s doing, because I really want you to have a good impression of me, Super to Super.”

“You hush up or I’ll ice that blabbering mouth.” Peter sighed, looking at his legs and remembering the gravity of his current situation. Glancing upwards, he got an idea. As softly as he can, he cast a web upwards, then started to heft himself up, putting a strain on the ceiling above. Out of Frozone’s plane of vision, he began to swing back and forth, slowly gaining momentum until the whoosh of air made Frozone turn-

-just in time to see the shattering of ice where Peter had swung himself into the wall, quickly scrambling into the vents, his muscles firing in panic. Ice was formed where just a moment ago, he had been suspended, and he raced through the vents, still consumed by the fear of capture. Once in the main vent, he began to climb up, bounding like a cat, until he reached the opening, and there, his spidey sense flared. He caught himself, pressed to the wall of the vent, listening over the roar of blood in his ears.

“He’s in the vents. I’ve got to go down.”

The next voice was deeper, etched with concern. “There’s no way for you to stop yourself if you fell- we can wait him out.”

“Bob, I won’t let him slip through our fingers a third time.”

It’s Elastigirl, he knows. If he comes up, Mr. Incredible will be waiting to catch him- so he attached another web and started to slide down as fast as he could without risking a crash, his breath echoing like thunder.

“I can hear him. I’m going in.”

“No, we can flush him out! Honey, for once in your life, listen to me-”

Peter had company now. He slid down at an alarming pace, feeling the gripping sensation of freefall nightmares where his body feels helplessly weightless against the pulling hold of gravity. Just then, his senses flared, and he brought himself into a horizontal passage before he slammed on the floor below, or what he believed must’ve been the end. Scrambling down the passage, he looked frantically down vent after vent, hoping to find an empty room. His breath hitched as he passed each one, wondering which might be his last, when she would find him and grab him and drag him out, blaming him for a murder he didn’t attempt.

Her voice echoed down the shaft. “Spider-Man. Stop where you are.”

Instead, he leapt into the room below, grabbing onto the ceiling and crawling along, only then thinking to look down, where he was met with the gaze of at least ten football players. They froze, holding various kinds of equipment.

“Hi guys.” Peter’s voice cracked with fear. Geez, that’s embarrassing. So much for being twenty-five.

“Dude… are you the Spider Robber, from the TV?”

“I’m just passing through.” He dropped in front of the door, and before one of them could dash forward, Peter yanked it open, running as fast as he could down the hallway, muttering “crap crap crap!” all the way. He glanced back over his shoulder, wracked with nerves, until he saw Elastigirl come out, running after him as her rubbery legs slowly grew longer and longer.

“I’m pretty sure you’re cheating!” He ran around a corner towards a window. Without a second thought, he leapt through it, sending glass flying and cutting the fabric of his jumpsuit in what must’ve been a hundred different places.

“AH!” It took him a moment to remember his abilities in his absolute panic with the street approaching rapidly below. Narrowly attaching his webbing to a building corner, he flew around it, the busy metro buzzing with activity below him.

Struck with inspiration, he went three blocks to grab his backpack, quickly stuffing his tracksuit into the front pocket and pulling on his clothes. He rubbed his cheek, noticing the blood on the back of his hand. Note to self, don’t crash through windows. Slowly, he slipped back into the street, walking with his best I’m-not-being-suspicious face, which vaguely resembled holding a frog in his mouth. At least, that’s what May said every time she caught him. He had only passed by two stores when he saw Elastigirl zipping into view. Passerby gasped and looked ahead, still starstruck with recent events, and he followed suit, but for different reasons entirely. She flew into the alley, only to find his torn webbing from where his backpack had previously hung. He kept down the street, head low when she came back into view.

It’s like he had disappeared. Which he had; he went from Spider-Man, the somebody, to Peter Parker, an insignificant face in the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, give it a little love if you liked it and I'll be sure to dish out another chapter very soon.


	3. Of Hippogriffs and Tiny Spoons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The struggle continues.  
> Without further ado...

Holding his tattered suit up in his room, he noticed how the glass had frayed the fabric. Sighing, he dropped it down. That would take ages to mend, but he still had homework. He tossed it across the room where it dropped into his hamper. He gingerly touched his scraped up arms. They’d heal fast, save one of the gashes, but one is always easier to explain than a hundred. May came in, first aid kit in hand and concern on her face.

“What was it this time?” She settled onto the bed next to him, popping it open.

“Uh.. just some girl,” he mumbled, extending his arm.

“Peter! You’re fighting girls now? I thought I-”

“No no no!” He hurriedly corrected, “I didn’t want any business, but she got me with.. With her keys, and I was like, woah, I don’t want to hurt you, but she was totally after me… so. Yeah.” He cleared his throat.

“Her keys? What did you do?”

“Some guy did something and she thought it was me. Which it wasn’t. Like, catcalling. I’m glad she was prepped to knife- I mean, key him, but you know… wrong guy. I would’ve gone after him, too.” May shook her head.

“It’s guys like that who ruin it for everyone.” She peeled the band-aid and pressed it on. Thankfully it was the huge kind that didn’t come in minion print. Knowing May, she would’ve put one of those suckers on, hell-bent on embarrassing him as always.

“Yeah. Thanks, May.”

“Now get on with your homework. I’m making chicken lasagna,” by which she meant, “I’m heating up a pre-made Stouffer’s in the oven.”

“They make it in chicken?” It’s like the man-n-cheese all over again.

“Light meat is healthier, you know,” she preached, leaving with the first aid kit. Just like walnut date loaves are healthier than cinnamon rolls, and the classic sneaking avocado into his brownies for nutritional benefits. He hopped into his desk chair, trying to catch up on Algebra from yesterday, but found himself checking the news on his phone by googling “Spider-Man.” Nothing. “Spider robber.” 127 results. Slick. He clicked on the first, scanning the page for… here it is. The Daily Bugle had no qualms immediately marking him as a prime suspect for the hospitalized coach, who Peter recalled as Mr. Derringer. He couldn’t help his relief that they’d brought him back to consciousness, taking a moment to breathe. He did it.

Had he? That warm breeze wasn’t just a perchance happening. There was something there, something he didn’t manage to catch, and they’re still out there. The metal bit of the pencil he had been chewing snapped in his teeth, and he spat it out onto the desk. Ew. super chewing strength. That’s just weird. He pushed the bit into the trashcan and set down the pencil before he could snap it in half amidst his thoughts. Sliding his chair back, he rested with the chair on its back two legs, shifting into the optimum position to stare at his phone. Not a single mention of the real perpetrator, just his name all over and blurry pictures plastered as a reference. He hid his face in his shirt and groaned. This was not how it was supposed to work out. He had made two well-known idols into his enemies just because he kept finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. He tossed his phone across the room to his bed, ridding himself of Spidey-distractions, and went back to simplifying logarithms, but every free thought was lent to that mystifying breeze.

He was still thinking about it the next day during decathlon practice, which Ned had triumphantly dragged him along to, knowing Peter couldn’t “stuff” his way out of this one.

“Which kind of mutation does not usually change the length of a chromosome?” Ned hit the bell.

“Inversion.” MJ nodded, placing the card down.

“Correct. Who in this room isn’t paying attention?” Flash hit the bell.

“Peter!” Someone shouted, breaking into his invisible thought bubble.

Peter looked up, glancing around.

“I was..” His gaze hit flash and he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, next question.” MJ gave him a suspicious look but brought up the next card.

“What are the main assumptions of the kinetic molecular theory of gases?” She gave Peter a pointed look, who hit the bell without looking at it in a sudden bout of fear.

“Uhm.. gas is a collection of molecules in constant motion, collisions are perfectly elastic, there’s a lot of space relative to particle size, and the speed of the particle varies directly with the temperature.” MJ nodded, seemingly convinced back to neutrality in his favor.

“Good. Next,” and the cards shuffled again. “What’s the boiling point of mercury, in Kelvin?” Peter heard Sally’s response, but the thoughts in his mind were much clearer now.

A warm breeze. A mobile gas. That means…

Mr. Harrington stood, stacking his papers and stretching. “All right, that’s all. Shark Week is on Discovery tonight if any of you are wanting some casual learning, but other than that, go team.” Peter leapt up, grabbing his bag and jogging for the door.

“Peter!” Ned shuffled up behind him. “You love Shark Week,” he suggested as an attempt to by sly, “and… smoothies.” He pulled the coupon out of his pocket.

“Ned, I..” Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“It expires in two days! Come on, fifty percent off a jumbo, you really can’t turn this down. Again,” he added, keeping the pink and orange slip where Peter could see it. “Strawberry Surprise?” He waved it once, but MJ brought his hand down as she passed.

“Ned, let him live out his mysterious ways.” She turned, still talking as she walked backwards. “He’s transcended past the Strawberry Surprise.”

Ned leaned forward with a new urgency, whispering, “Peter. You can’t transcend past Strawberry Surprise.” Peter shrugged, trying to squirm out of his gaze.

Peter sighed. “Maybe?”

Ned rolled his eyes. “Not even if we go to the new one?”

At this, Peter’s face changed.

“The new one?” he asked, his interest spiked.

“Yeah, across from the stadium. I hear they have spinny chairs at the bar and all the new flavors in little tiny testing cups-” Ned pinched the air and made his voice high pitched on “tiny” for emphasis.

“And tiny spoons?”

“The tiniest!” Ned grinned.

“How could I refuse?” Peter gave him a half-hearted smile, pulling his hands out of his pockets, “stadium” echoing in his ears.

Ned punched the air. “Yes! Jumbo smoothie, here we go!”

Peter laughed, then felt the wild sensation of his spidey sense, hopping on one leg back from where he nearly stepped into a tray of pink paint.

“Woah, sorry,” he apologized, stepping away. The girl dipped her brush in and smiled.

“No problem.” A gaggle of Student Council girls had been painting on paper mounted up against the wall to advertise the next school fundraiser, the majority of which was covered in flowers.

“Hey, Penis Parker!”

Peter’s face visibly imploded with embarrassment and the girl pretended to be really invested in the flower she had been painting. He turned back to face Flash, expecting all of the worst.

“You left without saying goodbye,” Flash chided, opening his arms like he was preparing for a hug. Peter kept walking, keeping his face down, when one of the girls, a little freshman, stood.

“You’ve got no right to call him that!” She held the paintbrush threateningly at Flash, which dripped yellow onto the floor below, dangerously close to his prized Nike’s. He moved his hands into a defensive position.

“Keep your brush to yourself.” He spoke to Peter’s back, “You’ve got freshman girls doing the heavy lifting for you now, huh? Then again, you’re still a bit wimpy for a sophomore.”

“Just keep walking,” Ned whispered, but Peter couldn’t leave that girl up against Flash. If he did anything to her, it’d be on Peter, so he turned.

“What do you want?”

Flash clapped his hand onto Peter’s shoulder. “Just saying hello to my favorite guy.” He shoved him forward, leaving Peter to stumble around paint trays, just barely missing a cup of wet brushes. He put a hand back to stabilize himself when he felt the squish of wet paint between his fingers. Grimacing, he looked at the yellow and blue patchwork that snuck its way onto his sweater’s sleeve. Flash laughed at him. “Not as good as stepping in a tray, but I guess you don’t have nice shoes to ruin, anyways, do you, Peni-”

Flash was cut off as he looked down at the girl with the long black hair. While her friend had stood in his defense, she snuck up on him, painting a clean line of pink across his left Nike. He stuttered in shock.

“You- you’re going to pay for this! My father-” The brunette with the yellow brush broke out in a smile, wrinkling her nose as she gave her best British accent.

“My father will hear about this!”

Ned snorted into his hand. Flash moved closer to her.

“What did you just say?” The girl continued to beam, holding her brush out and jabbing it dangerously close to him until he had backed up into the lockers.

“I’m going to go run to my daddy like the little boy I am and have that hippogriff beheaded, hear me, beheaded!” She swiped the brush as she quoted the iconic scene, drawing a yellow line across Flash’s neck. He laughed nervously.

“So is this some kind of nerd joke, because I’ve got no idea what you’re…” Ned barked out a laugh, then hid his mouth, petrified. “Alright, that’s it.” He grabbed the brush away from the girl, pointing it back at her, but she didn’t so much as flinch.

“What’re you going to do, ruin my paint clothes?” She gestured down at her front, which was already splattered with green, blue, pink, and purple. Flash huffed, shoving her brush back into her hand.

“You win this time.” His gaze turned to Peter, who had grabbed Ned’s arm and already started to, as the veteran victims put it, “get lost.”

“You just wait until 8 A.M. tomorrow, Penis!” He called.

When they had made it out the door, Ned burst out laughing.

“Dude, that was awesome!”

Peter looked down at his ruined sleeve. “Yeah, for the most part. Do you think this comes out?” He did his best to inspect it without touching the paint, twisting his arm at a strange angle to get a better view. The blue and yellow had seeped in a little, coalescing into a murky green.

“My mom can get anything out, don’t worry. I think as long as it’s wet, we can wash it off. Maybe the bathroom at Smoothie Palace?” Peter nodded, sticking out his arm, afraid he might brush his pants with the sleeve if it wasn’t at least two feet away.

“Sure, we can try that.” Ned kept chuckling the rest of the way, nicknaming the girl who had stood up to Flash the Ginny of the day.

“Think about it. She’s younger, bold, and totally awesome. She painted his neck!” Ned waved his arm out for emphasis, whacking a tree. “Ow.” He brought his hand up to his eyes for close inspection.

“But Hermione was the one that punched him, remember?” Ned shook his head.

“But when they went to buy textbooks at Flourish and Blott’s and Draco was being,” he waved his hand vaguely, “Draco, Ginny was like,” Ned made his voice high pitched, pointing forwards at an invisible perpetrator, “‘leave him alone!’”

Peter shook his head, laughing. “Man, your British accent is awful.”

Ned shrugged, pushing open the door to Smoothie Palace. “Could you do better?”

“Hey, I know to quit when I’m ahead.”

“Do you?” But Peter was already craning his neck back at the menu.

“Can you order me the strawberry? I’m going to try to wash this out.”

Ned nodded. “I’ll be sure to get you the teensiest spoon.”

Peter went to the restroom, laughing to himself. He kicked open the door to the bathroom, then got to scrubbing at his sleeve in the sink. “Please get out, please get out..” Peter squirted a bit of foamy soap on the sleeve, rubbing it in for good measure and rinsed again. He heard a stall open behind him, but he didn’t look up, not until the man beside him was washing his hands.

Peter had to swallow a little bile in his throat when he saw who it was.

He tried to hide his shock, quickly turning his focus back to his hands. A boy jogged up on his other side, scrubbing quickly and shaking his hands out.

“Soap, Dash,” the man reminded him, and the boy scrubbed again, faster this time, and shook them hard enough that a few drops sprayed Peter. Peter flinched, looking up from the hole his eyes had begun to bore in the sink.

“Oh, sorry,” Dash said, only after his father had given him a look.

“N.. no problem.” Peter kept scrubbing, harder now with the nerves in his hands sparking on overdrive.

“Oh… uh… alright!” The boy sped out of the bathroom, his dad walking behind him, glancing over at Peter once. When the door shut, he shuddered, gripping the sink. Breathe in three seconds, out five, in three, out five. When someone else opened the bathroom door, he nearly yelped, but caught it in his throat, clearing it a little louder than necessary. He grabbed a few paper towels, rubbing them against the vague stain that was still left, and tossed the ball into the trashcan across the room. He was so intent on beelining out of the bathroom, he forgot to overreact to his perfect shot.

Ned was sitting at a table for two, sipping contentedly on his smoothie, when Peter jumped into the seat across from him. He spluttered.

“Dude, that almost came out my nose.” Peter was sipping quickly, head down until he hissed and gripped his forehead.

“Agh, brain freeze.”

Ned tilted his head slightly. “Yeah, slow down.”

Peter nodded, then tried to slip it into the conversation as casually as he could. “You know… maybe we should drink and, like.. Walk down the sidewalk.”

“Nah, I like it here,” Ned dismissed, looking out the window at the stadium. “Look at that. It’s huge.”

Peter tried his best not to glance too many times at the family in the booth. The terror from the vents started to set in again, and he sipped even faster than before, which had him choking on ice.

“Woah, you okay?” Ned watched him, ready to leap up, but Peter waved his hand, hacking.

“I’m- ack- just fine.” He nodded with a cough to the side. “See? Fine.”

“You don’t seem so fine.” Ned’s face softened and he moved his smoothie to the side. “You know, if it’s bothering you again-”

“It’s not!” Peter squeaked, then he coughed, purposefully deepening his voice. “It’s not.”

Ned nodded slowly, clearly not buying into it. “Would… walking help?”

Peter brightened instantly. Please, get me out of here! “Yes!” But the instant he went to leap out of his chair, a girl was in his way. She smiled- the brunette with the brown bob cut.

“Hey.” He adjusted back so that he was sitting properly again, touching his sleeves nervously.

“Hey. I was just wondering if the paint got out.” She motioned toward his shirt.

“Oh… yeah, mostly, thanks for asking.” She took a smoothie from her friend’s hand, then turned back to him, scooping some grape shaved ice into her mouth.

“It’s nothing. I’m Lucy, by the way, and this is Violet.”

Peter tried to keep his nervous spasming to a minimum, mouth open. Ned flew to the rescue, thankfully, announcing, “I’m Ned, and he’s Peter. Thanks for standing up to Flash earlier. That was boss of you guys.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Violet shrugged, “I’ve seen much worse.” Peter nodded numbly, murmuring a “yahuh.” Ned gave him a weird look, then turned back to them.

“Don’t mind him, he just got a brain freeze.”

“Ouch, the worst! Try your tongue on the roof of your mouth.”

Peter nodded and complied, even though it was mostly gone, and his frog in the mouth face made a brief appearance. Ned kicked him under the table and his mouth popped open. Lucy paid no mind, fixing her olive green messenger bag on her shoulder. “Okay, see you around?”

“Yeah, bye!” Ned replied brightly. Peter nodded again. Ned turned his head to Peter, leaning forward across the table.

“Dude, that was so uncool,” he hissed. “They were just saying hi.”

Peter watched as the girls sat at the booth with the massive Mr. Incredible and gaped. Ned snapped his fingers in front of his eyes.

“Earth to Peter? Houston, we have a problem. Peter? You just won the lottery. The sky is falling.” Ned veered on the outrageous in his attempts to grab Peter’s attention. “You got a hot date with-”

Peter snapped up. “Walk?”

Ned stared.

“You wanna.. Go?” He jerked his thumb towards the door. Peter nodded vigorously.

“Yeah.”

Ned slid out of his chair slowly. “If that’ll break you from your trance…” He picked up his smoothie off the counter and took a sip, “I guess so.”

Peter grabbed up his backpack and sped out the door, two steps ahead of Ned, gasping once he was out like he’d just broke the surface after being tossed underwater. He grabbed at his chest, remembering the smashing glass and the darkness and the fear and-

Ned’s hand rested on his shoulder. “Peter. Peter, look at me.”

Peter glanced up. Ned’s brow furrowed.

“Are you… dude, is this some kind of anxiety attack? It was just two girls.” Ned’s eyes widened when Peter didn’t respond. “Here, we can go home, right now, want a cab? A cab is faster. Hey, Peter.” He shook his shoulder gently, but Peter just kept shaking his head.

“Just gotta… go breathe… for a second,” he gasped, stumbling into the nearest alleyway. Ned trailed immediately behind him like a concerned parent. Once Peter stopped moving away, he grabbed the smoothie from Peter’s hand- peeled it, rather; the only thing keeping the styrofoam cup in his grip was his abilities- and set both jumbo cups on the ground.

“Why don’t you sit down? It’ll be fine.” Peter leaned on the wall, nodding. He swallowed, trying to right himself.

“It’s, it’s no big deal, Ned, I got it, I just think I should go home for a while.”

Ned nodded again. “Okay, in a minute. You were really freaking me out for a moment there.” He tried to break the tension with a smile, but Peter’s ears were pink with embarrassment. Ned dropped the smile and nodded. “Yeah, okay.” He leaned against the wall on Peter’s right and waited until Peter seemed to have some semblance of control. Peter picked up his smoothie, shaking out his shoulders.

“All good?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah.”

Ned got his own smoothie and nodded to the street. “Want that cab still?” He was reaching into his pocket for his phone when Peter grabbed his wrist.

“No, uh, I can get home by myself.”

Ned pocketed his phone. “Sure, I’ll walk with you.”

Peter nodded, moving out of the alley, but his gaze was on the massive stadium. He stopped short, thinking he saw a girl, bent over by one of the vents coming out of the side of the stadium-

“Hey!” Peter barely managed to keep his smoothie from splashing onto the girl he had run into.

“Sorry, sorry.” He moved around her, ignoring her judgemental look as she kept down the street, fixing her grip on a hot coffee. He looked back at the stadium wall, half expecting something dramatic, like a ripped open grate, but nothing. He started to walk towards it when Ned grabbed his arm, pulling him back.

“Dude! No walking into the street! The crosswalk is this way,” he led him off to the side. Peter nodded vaguely, the gears moving in his mind.

He hadn’t caught them. They could still be out there. They might return. It wasn’t unheard of.. Peter shook his head.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, a little apologetically. “Thanks for the smoothie!” Before Ned could protest, he was jogging across the crosswalk and around the corner adjacent to the stadium. Ned was lost into the mass of passerby crossing the street, and once he had reached the sidewalk, looking around, there was no Peter to be found. He looked down at a pigeon who was floundering in a circle with deep understanding.

“Mood,” he muttered, walking down the street on the way to his house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That moment when half the reason you decided to make this teen and up was the "Penis" nickname. Also: Ned is so much fun to write.  
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Of Feminism and Unfortunate Nicknames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back and with some more action!  
> Without further ado...

Once he was in the suit, Peter pulled open the grate carefully. As he slid his front half in, a piece of torn suit caught on the corner. Grumbling, he detached himself.

“Is this even mendable? I need a sewing machine.” He continued to mumble as he crawled down the vent, the shuffling of his clothes echoing endlessly. “‘Hey, May, can I have a sewing machine for my birthday. Why? No reason. I just woke up feeling a little feminist today.’” He looked up the vent, squinting. His lenses began to twitch, and he swatted his goggles. “No. Stop that.” They righted themselves after a bit of focusing, and he began to climb upwards, listening for any gusts. “Maybe I’ll be lucky today. Maybe it’s the wind demon Sabbath and we can all go home and finish our smoothies and watch Survivor like a big happy fam-” a distinctive gust moved above him. “...ily.” He climbed up, quicker this time, when the hot wind slapped down on him. He struggled for purchase against the vent as it pushed him down.

“Let’s- let’s all calm-” The hot gust hit him like a kick to the face and his head hit the side of the vent. “HEY!” He swatted at the air. “That’s a foul! Yellow card, yellow-” Another hit him, harder, and his nose felt punched. “Red card! That’s it!” He cast a web, doing his best to push up past the force. His suit was rippling with the force of the wind. “No knocking me down, no sir!” A gust slapped his wrists. “Ma’am! That’s good too!” The wind seemed to grumble with displeasure (can wind do that? It’s been a crazy week) and whoosh up the vent. Peter took a moment to make sure he was sure it had moved away then began his mad scramble after it. “I’m gunna get you!” He ran into a junction, and after a moment’s pause, leapt to his right. “Heeere’s Johnny!” He felt his body pass through a hot gust and slid around, scrambling above the vent and peering down. His right lens had started to twitch as he zoned in on the scene below him.

The man walked around the room. Brown hair, flecked with grey, and a green tracksuit. He tossed a towel over his shoulder, cleaning up his space of gauze and chalk and bottles of alcohol. Peter almost left for the next vent when he heard the crunch of plastic and moments later, the man gagging, and immediately, he leapt in the room.

“This is NOT COOL!” He ran to the phone again, but it was already smashed in. “Oh. So you’re intelligent.” He looked at the man. “Sir? Do you have a cell phone? We gotta call 911.” The man staggered back onto a reclined examination table, and Peter reached into his pocket, “so so sorry, sir,” to pull out a Starkphone X. “Woah, this is so cool man-” The next moment, the phone was shattered in his hands and he dropped it. “That wasn’t me!” The man was grabbing at the table, choking and waving a hand wildly. Peter held his hands up. “Hey, let’s all calm down, maybe I can…” His gaze hit the freezer. Jackpot. “Just a moment hang tight sir I’ve got an idea!” He jerked open the door, grabbing a ton of ice packs and running back, pressing them to the man’s neck. The wind howled. “Haha! Deposition!” The more he pressed, the more the air thrashed, trying to move the packs away while limiting contact. As the man regained his eyesight, a hand swung at Peter’s face, who barely ducked out of the way. “Wait, wrong bad guy, sir!” Another hand swung, grabbing Peter’s suit in a fist and shoving him back. The ice packs fell to the floor and the wind curled around the man instantly, constricting it with such force his skin began to purple in front of Peter’s eyes. His eyes popped and he curled his lips, pointing a crooked finger at Peter in accusation before it fell, slack, at his side. His eyes rolled back and Peter scrambled forward, trying to lie him down properly on the ground, moving him to his back. “Sir? Sir! Nonono,” he touched his face. “Aww crap, have a pulse?” The man’s heart didn’t care about Peter’s begging and refused to pump. His vision was going blurry. 911 wasn’t coming and Peter had failed again when he was so close. He sat back, trying to breathe as the panic set in again, grabbing at the mask on his face. In three, out five, in three- the gust pushed him back as he sat against the cabinets on the opposite walls and he jerked back to reality, kicking at the air. “You know you are the most annoying wind I have ever breathed! I should- I should- he looked at the open fridge, scrambling to it again. The door slammed on his hand as he tried to reach into it and he yelped, but forced it open, yanking open a drawer, desperate-

He clawed out a block of dry ice and held it in the middle of the hot air. He grimaced as he held it up; some of the cold was seeping through the tears of his gloves, burning lines into his hands, but the gas was faring much worse as it condensed into a visible form. Peter grimaced, squinting as the air formed into a shadow of a body, writhing in the cold steam. As the body gained more form, the block shrunk, until it was only a nugget in his palm. Cursing, Peter tried to grab more from the ice, but the minute the nugget let out its last breath of steam, sliding its form from his hand, the shadow dissipated, flying to the vent in a wild gust that shook bottles from the cabinets, crashing onto the ground around Peter. Glass glinted around him and liquids seeped into the floor, releasing a multitude of pungent smells. He struggled to his feet, feeling the familiar overstimulation that a snuff of gasoline gives him. He staggered to the side, accidentally stepping on a small piece of glass. He leapt onto the wall with a yelp, his gaze slowly moving to the team physician, who was still on the floor.

The team physician who laid on the floor, with no pulse, and no CPR. Peter struggled to breathe as the dropped down next to him.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I should’ve- should’ve-” he tried to start CPR, but he was shaking horribly. Was he working on a dead man? Nobody is coming, nobody is… Peter choked on a sob, trying to… His eyes slid up to a defibrillator mounted on the wall, and he scrambled to grab it, pulling it out of the orange casing and carrying it over.

“Uh…” He pulled it open, looking at the wires and handheld pieces with confusion. A recorded voice broke the silence.

“Ah-!” He backed up a little.

“STAY CALM. FOLLOW THESE VOICE INSTRUCTIONS. MAKE SURE 911 IS CALLED NOW.” It sounded like an authoritative principal. That, Peter could relate to.

“See, I can’t give Spidey’s number to 911, so-”

“BEGIN BY EXPOSING PATIENT’S BARE CHEST AND TORSO. REMOVE OR CUT CLOTHING IF NEEDED.” Peter nodded, pulling up the green tracksuit jacket and white cotton shirt.

“WHEN PATIENT’S CHEST AND TORSO ARE EXPOSED, REMOVE SQUARE FOIL PACKAGE FROM AED. REMOVE FOIL PACKAGE. SEPARATE BLUE FROM WHITE BY PULLING AT TABBED CORNER. FIRMLY PLACE THE PAD ON THE PATIENT EXACTLY AS ILLUSTRATED-” Peter glanced at the AED to cross-reference “-THEN PLACE THE SECOND PAD ON THE OPPOSITE LOCATION EXACTLY AS ILLUSTRATED.” Peter scrambled to get it on.

“Slow down-”

“DO NOT TOUCH PATIENT. ANALYZING HEARTBEAT.” Peter held up his hands for the machine to see- wait a second, it-

“SHOCK WILL BE DELIVERED IN 3, 2-” Peter covered his ears and watched on with wide eyes, “-1.” The man’s body shook with the electricity and Peter gagged.

“Sorrysorry-”

“IT IS NOW SAFE TO TOUCH THE PATIENT.” Peter nodded numbly, then perked up.

“Oh, right!” He put his hands on his chest to continue CPR. “Uh, uh, uh, uh, staying alive, staying alive...”

The door was thrown open. Peter looked up.

“Aw, crap- careful, glass on the floor-” Elastigirl stretched her leg over and stepped right next to him. “Oh, that’s right.”

“DO NOT TOUCH PATIENT.” Peter’s hands flew off his chest like he was burnt. A boy suddenly appeared at the door and piped up,

“He sure doesn’t look like he’s killing him. What’s that?” He pointed at the AED. Elastigirl turned angrily.

“I told you to wait outside, Dash,” She grabbed Peter by the neck, lifting him up like a snake. Peter was in so much shock it took him a second to remember to try and twist away.

“Well if you’d just call 911 I would say my job is done here-” Her arm stretched out, handing him over to Mr. Incredible, who held him like a particularly slippery bar of soap. Peter tried to slip out of his arms, but his grip tightened so much that Peter started to gasp.

“Can you- wheeze- let up?” Between the glass in his foot and the worry that this man might actually die for real this time, he had lost a lot of his fighting energy, but he had a feeling the fatigue wouldn’t stick.

“No,” the man grumbled, heading down the hall with him as the boy ran laps around his feet.

“So this is the Spider Robber? His costume is lame.”

“I prefer homemade,” Peter rasped. When he caught sight of a policeman approaching down the hall, that missing energy came back full force and he started to kick. “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me I swear, the wind!”

Mr. Incredible grunted. “The wind?”

“Yes! And I almost had her this time, if-” He kicked back with his injured foot, hitting Mr. Incredibles knee before howling. “Ooooohhhh shi-”

“Hesaidabadword!” The boy squeaked. Violet came down the hall in full family costume, holding a baby who was slobbering on his fist.

“Are we going home soon?” She had to adjust her grip on the baby when he tried to scale her body.

“Yeah, in a minute, once we-”

“So if anyone is a teensy bit concerned, there is glass in my foot,” Peter hissed, “and it hurts and you’re about to hand me over to the police and I’m a little bit mad about that, understandably, it’s been a SUPER long day, so if you don’t mind, Mr. Incredible, Sir, if you’d set me down and let me get the mean gas lady, I actually have an idea how to stop all this and-”

“Alright, show’s over.” Mr. Incredible held him as the policeman reached to cuff his hands. Instinctually, Peter kicked both feet out at him and screeched a very colorful word when his foot made contact. The policeman flew into the wall behind him and Peter tilted his wrists, shooting out webs, but Violet brought up a shield, stopping the webbing, which slid to the floor pitifully.

“Hey Violet, do me a favor and stop messing up my attempts at escape, please?” Peter groaned. The girl’s mouth dropped.

“He knows my name!”

Peter’s eyes widened at the mistake.

“No I don’t! Wild guess! Purple shields, those words are synonyms, ehem, you know, so-” Violet was approaching him, finger held up threateningly.

“Who are you?”

“Uh… funny story… Spider-Man?” She reached for his mask, but he bit down on the fabric, speaking through his teeth.

“Dash very rude a' you!” She pulled harder and he tilted his head back, but she yanked it off and gasped. He still had it held it in his teeth so that it was hanging from his mouth.

“Penis Parker?!”

His face went beet red.

“Now hold on a second,” Mr. Incredible began with his best adult-in-control voice.

“YOU SAID PENIS!” Dash squealed with laughter, pointing at Violet and kicking his legs.

Peter looked at Violet with begging eyes, still holding the mask in his mouth. “Pleathe, pleathe, but the math’ ba’ on.” He looked towards the door in panic, waiting for an officer to come in and-

When he felt the fabric slip back on his face, his head fell forward limply in relief. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Let me get this straight. You know each other? How old is this dude?” Mr. Incredible shook him like a stuffed animal, anticipating him to flop over dead at any moment.

“Sixteen?” Violet guessed.

“In two months,” Peter mumbled. “Please don’t hand me over to the police, Mr. Incredible, I didn’t suffocate the guy, you’ve gotta believe me!”

Mr. Incredible seemed to ignore everything he said. “How do you know her identity?”

Peter turned his head slowly. “Dude, that mask barely covers a third of your face. You’re not hiding anything.”

“PE-NIS!,” Dash wheezed with laughter still. “Your name is-”

“No! No! It’s not.” Ambulance personnel ran down the hallway past them with a stretcher. Elastigirl came out of the room following it as the doctors shouted to each other about vitals and heart rate.

“You’ve got him?”

Mr. Incredible sighed. “Honey, we can’t hand him over to the police.”

“Well, why not? We’ve found him repeatedly at the scene, he’s avoided arrest-”

“He’s a minor.” Mr. Incredible’s voice echoed defeat.

“And his name is PEN-” Violet’s hand slapped over Dash’s mouth.

“Peter!” She shouted instead before Dash wrestled out of her grip.

“It’s called a secret identity for a reason,” Peter mumbled.

“Minors can still commit crimes,” Elastigirl insisted.

“Dude, I’m supposed to be a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. I don’t strangle people, I swear,” Peter felt like a broken record pleading his innocence.

“We need to ask him questions in private,” Mr. Incredible insisted. “The police aren’t good handling Supers his age. We could be creating a far greater monster by handing him over.”

Elastigirl shook her head. “Then what?” She looked at Peter’s mask. His lenses were twitching again and he rubbed where his nose must be on his shoulder.

“Hi?” He doesn’t handle awkward staring too well.

“Alright. Let’s take him.” She nodded her head down another hall. “Get him restrained in the Incredibile.”

“Thanks, Elastigirl. And I’m really flattered that you think I need restraining. No hard feelings!” He called over Mr. Incredible’s shoulder.

“Kid, you run your mouth too much,” He admonished, placing him in the backseat. Metal clicked around his legs, ankles, neck, and midsection.

“If we got in a crash, I’m pretty sure I’d die, and that’s on you.” Dash zipped into the seat beside him.

“I call sitting by Penis!” He cheered, clicking in his seatbelt and looked up at Peter, who did his best to shrink into a small ball.

“Peter,” he insisted. Violet had moved into the car with the baby, setting him in a car seat that buckled itself.

“Uh, but Violet called you Penis. Why would she call you Penis? Peni-”

“Can we stop saying Pe- that word!” Mr. Incredible shook his head in the front seat.

“Word? You mean Penis?” Dash shot the rearview mirror a shining grin.

“If you say it one more time, no candy for a week.”

Dash’s face dropped.

“I take it back I take it back I take it-”

“Yes!” Mr. Incredible took a very deep breath. “Yes… I know.” Elastigirl slid into the passenger’s seat and the car revved up, to Peter’s relief.

“Wait! I left my backpack in the alley!” He cleared his throat. “I mean. If it’s fine that we bring it.”

“Why do you need your backpack? Is there a bomb in it?” Dash moved his face closer to Peter’s suspiciously.

“No… I’ve got… homework,” Peter mumbled. Elastigirl sighed, reaching her arm out the window, which returned with a backpack in hand.

“This one?”

Peter nodded as Elastigirl opened it up. “I promise there aren’t any bombs.” Elastigirl hummed, searching through it.

“Looks clean,” she decided, setting it by her feet.

Violet rolled her eyes. “He’s really not what you’d call a ‘dangerous character,’” she slurred, moving her fingers in air quotations. “Flash shoved him into wet paint today.”

Mr. Incredible’s brow furrowed. “He definitely could’ve dodged that.”

“I’m still here.” Dash had started to poke his side. Peter had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from giggling. “Hee- hey, stop that.”

“Dash, no poking the restrained Spiderboy.” Elastigirl was checking something on her phone, and her other hand stretched into the backseat to grab Dash’s hand. Dash couldn’t help splitting into a grin.

“Ac-tually, his name is Pe-”

Mr. Incredible cleared his throat loudly. “-ter.”

After some typical family banter, they’d finally pulled into the driveway of a very, very large house. Peter would've pinched himself if his hands weren't secured down.

"Woah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you read that right, there was a Starkphone. I know for sure Stark exists in this world, but if and how he may appear has yet to be decided. I love the Tony & Peter mentor relationship but as it is, I'm not sure if that's what Peter is needing at the moment. We shall see! If you liked it, make sure to give it a little love and I'll post another chapter very soon.


	5. Of Interrogation and Giraffes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for popping in yet again! If you like what you see so far, share this with a friend... I dare you.  
> Without further ado...

Mansion? Estate? Either way, Peter’s jaw dropped.

“Is this your house?” His voice squeaked. “Dude, this is sick!”

Dash reclined with his hands behind his head. “Yeah, pretty sick,” he bragged, pretending to inspect the nails on his right hand. The car slid into the garage seamlessly and the doors popped open. Everyone but Peter slid out.

“Uh… I’m still here.”

Mr. Incredible had come around to get him, though, restraining gauntlets in hand. “What would you say if I said those aren’t necessary-?” They were on his hands immediately. “Right. Mkay, I see how it is.” He looked down in shock as similar steel boots wrapped around his feet, glowing a bright blue around his ankles when they secured. “Do I… hop inside?” The boots slid across the ground, carrying him at a hover by Mr. Incredible. “Woah! Okay! I’m actually too impressed to be mad.” He tried leaning over to steer, but he ended up just flailing as he righted himself. “Did you make these?”

“No.”

“Buy them?” He started to hover down into the basement now. His boots lit up his descent before the lights sensed movement and clicked on.

“Yes.” Mr. Incredible continued to walk down the stairs beside him until they reached the bottom.

“Who from?” The room was empty, save a few chrome chairs and tables, and was that a popcorn machine in the corner?

“Nobody.” Mr. Incredible reached for his mask and Peter ducked.

“No thanks!”

“You’re in a secure room. Nobody is going to see you.”

“You could have cameras.”

“True, but we don’t.” He reached for him again.

“I vote no!” He ducked the other way.

“You don’t get to vote-”

“This is a free country!” Peter leaned back until his upper body formed a near-perfect U.

“Well you aren’t eighteen!” Mr. Incredible grabbed his shoulder roughly and yanked off his mask. Peter ducked his head. “Look at me.”

“No,” he mumbled.

“Look at me.”

Peter snapped his head up, trying to mask his fear with a glare, but he wore his heart on his sleeve. Sure, the mask hid his identity, but most importantly, it hid his fear. “Happy?” Elastigirl walked around from the back, taking her first look on his face.

“You weren’t kidding.” She stared at him, and Peter looked down again. “Hey, we aren’t going to hurt you.”

“I’ve still got glass in my foot, so I guess it’s the thought that counts.” The metal boot wasn’t helping things. He’d been distracted in his panic, but it still hurt like hell.

“Glass in your foot!” He nodded. “Which one?”

“Left.” She got down, disengaging the boot. Peter observed how to do it. As his good friend Mickey Mouse liked to say, this could be a surprise tool to help us later. Elastigirl looked at his bloody foot, holding it up to get a better look. “It’s healing around the glass. We might have to cut it open again to get it out.” She looked up at Mr. Incredible, who shrugged.

“I’m not a doctor.” He held his hands up defensively and pulled up a chair. “Here, sit, kid.” Peter sat back in the chair moodily, grimacing when she prodded his heel.

“Oww.” He recoiled, bringing his knee towards his chest.

“Alright, while she fixes that, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.” Mr. Incredible crossed his arms and looked down at him.

“It was wind lady. I-”

Mr. Incredible held up his hand. “Wait for my question.”

“I’m going to explain,” Peter insisted. “She’s made of wind, hot gas, so she’s been strangling them-”

“It’s a she?” Mr. Incredible raised an eyebrow.

“Well… she blew at me when I said ‘Sir,’ so…” It felt lamer once he said it out loud.

Mr. Incredible pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yahuh.”

Peter tested the waters. “So…” When Mr. Incredible didn’t jump to cut him off, he continued. “I called 911 last time because I figured, ‘hey, it’s hard to hit air, I should call medics,’ but then she busted the phone, and this time she busted it before I even got in there, so I got the guy’s cell, but she busted that, too-”

Mr. Incredible didn’t move his hand from his face. “And we know you didn’t bust the phones yourself how?”

“Because I just told you it wasn’t me! And, and so I tried CPR last time, but this time I thought he was dead and she threw me around the room and so I figured hot gas, gotta cool it down and I held up ice after she nearly broke my hand with the fridge door and hot and cold attract so she couldn’t run but then I ran out of ice and he left and the guy was on the floor but I got the defibrillator even though I’ve never even used a defibrillator and-!” He realized his voice had started to shake and both adults were staring at him with wide eyes. “Did I do something wrong?” He looked between the two of them. “I know I should’ve gotten the ice before, but, but I swear I had no idea-”

Elastigirl held up her hand. “Alright, alright, that’s enough.” Peter was shaking with nervous energy by now and breathing fast. She gave her husband a knowing glance, and he nodded his affirmation. She looked back at Peter. “We believe it wasn’t you.” Peter melted into the chair with relief.

“Thank you, miss-” She held her hand up to silence him.

“But you ran from us every other time. Why?”

“Because you were trying to catch me?”

Mr. Incredible didn’t seem to find that very amusing.

“Explain.”

“Well- well sorry not all of us start out real experienced, this has been my first week of superhero-ing and I’ve gotta say, you’re giving the whole gig a pretty negative vibe.” Peter would’ve crossed his arms had he been free to do so.

“Haven’t your parents told you not to go around using your powers?”

“Uh.” Peter shifted uncomfortably. “They’re dead.” He hated pulling the orphan card, but he had to admit, the reactions on their faces made the past forty-eight hours a little less horrible.

“.. Oh,” Mr. Incredible managed. “Sorry.” He looked as if he was remembering something upsetting. Maybe his parents died, too, Peter hypothesized.

Peter shrugged. “It was a while ago. I’m okay. I’ve got my aunt.”

“Well, first of all, kids your age don’t start doing any solo-acts,” Elastigirl began.

“I’m just trying to do what’s right and- wait a second. Your son was in a supersuit, and he’s like eight!”

“We’re watching him,” Elastigirl defended, “and we couldn’t stop him from helping.”

“You can’t stop me any more than you can stop him.” Peter took a moment’s pause, then amended, “or a huge drill.” He giggled at Mr. Incredible’s offense.

“I’m letting you get away with that, this one time.” Mr. Incredible waved a finger at him.

Peter smiled and shrugged, laxer now that he’d been cleared of all charges. “Sure.”

Elastigirl walked away and came back with a drone that hovered at Peter’s foot.

“Hey, what does that do?” It drew out a knife from its square body and cut Peter’s foot. “Ah! Hey!” He pulled his foot back, but the drone followed.

“Hey, stay still, it’s going to take the glass out.” Peter bit his lip, avoiding eye contact with Elastigirl. His face scrunched as the bot reached in to get the glass and a whine formed against his will at the bottom of his throat. Once it was drawn out, he looked down at the shard of glass, pain forgotten. “Woah, that’s way bigger than I expected!” The bot started to float away, but Peter called after it, “Give me that!”

Mr. Incredible shook his head. “Why do you need it?” The bot had already begun to hover its way back to Peter.

“It was in my foot. I want it,” Peter said as if it were obvious. The bot positioned to put the glass back in his foot and Peter bent his leg in the air, out of the way. “No no not in my foot! Clean it and put it on a table.” The drone beeped loyally and buzzed away. Peter lowered his foot from where he had it, almost straight up in the air. Blood dripped onto the floor. “Uh, I’m dripping.” Elastigirl got some medical supplies, which was more like a case. He supposed this family was used to more than the usual papercut.

“What are all of your powers?” She had begun to wrap his ankle and heel in gauze.

“Uh, I stick to things, fast healing, my spidey sense- I mean, I can anticipate when something dangerous is about to happen,” he explained to their confused expressions, “and, uh, all my other senses are dialed to 11.”

“Does the webbing… come out of you?” Mr. Incredible looked uncomfortable at the thought, peering at his wrists.

“Ew, no, I made it.” Mr. Incredible’s eyebrows nearly disappeared when they shot up his forehead.

“Made it?”

“You know. Like, with chemicals. I invented it.”

“What happened to public school after I graduated? First, they changed math, and now,” he huffed, “they’re inventing webbing.”

“Nono, I mean, I double up on advanced sciences, but it’s like a hobby of mine, so once I got my powers, I thought I’d complete the look.” Elastigirl patted his foot when she had it wrapped up in two layers.

“There you go.” She stood up.

“Thanks.” He lowered his foot to the floor. “Can you stop restraining me now? I’m hungry.”

“Wait wait wait. We’re missing something here. So you made the webbing as a baby?”

“No! No way. No baby could do that.”

“But you said right when you got your powers-”

“I was like fourteen.” Both of them stared at him like he had grown a pink horn on his face.

“Fourteen?” Peter nodded, and Mr. Incredible held up a finger on one hand and four on the other. Peter glanced at his fingers and spoke slowly, wondering if they’d gotten hit on the head earlier.

“I mean, from my perspective, that’s forty-one, but yeah.”

“That’s… impossible,” Elastigirl spoke softly, looking at Mr. Incredible.

“Yeah, I know, but I’d already won like three science fairs by then, so the webbing wasn’t so hard to make. It’s not impossible to be a nerd, just difficult. Can you please let me out of the restraints now?” They snapped off after he spoke. Smiling, he hopped out of the chair onto his good foot. “Thanks.” He hopped over to his backpack, waving one of his arms to keep balanced.

“Hey, kid, what’re you doing?”

“Getting out my normal clothes-?” He lifted them for them to see. “Where’s a bathroom?” Mr. Incredible jerked this thumb to his left and Peter hopped along. “Thanks!” He could nearly feel the tension that thrummed in the silence that washed over the room between the two Supers. Whatever it was that was bothering them, all Peter could hope for as he shrugged on his NASA t-shirt was that it wouldn’t destroy his chances of getting home by dinnertime. As he hopped out, he remembered the cool metal of his black web shooters were still pressing on his wrists. He carefully popped them off and dropped them into his bag before stuffing his suit inside after them.

“Oh, hey, Mr. and Mrs. Incredible?” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and hopped to the center of the room in front of the two of them. “Do I need to be registered or something so the police can stop trying to stop me from stopping crime?” He took a moment to reflect, frowning slightly. “That was a lot of stop’s. Anyways,” he brightened hopefully.

“If you’re sure you haven't registered already,” Elastigirl started, as if she hoped he would but in and correct her, “then we have a friend we can contact. Expect a call from Rick Dicker.”

“Rick Dicker,” he nodded. “Okay. I can give you my name and cell number and stuff to relay to him.” He had already adjusted his backpack, ruffling through it with one hand. He pulled out a paper ball and flattened it on the table, clicking the pen on his chin. Once he had his information scrawled out, he passed it to Mr. Incredible, who seemed to look past him. “That good?”

Mr. Incredible didn’t look at it before he slid it in his pocket. “Yeah, that’s just fine.”

“Alright. Nice to meet you.” He started to hop towards the stairs.

Elastigirl caught up to him. “What’re you doing?”

“Walking home.”

“You can’t walk home.” She pointed down at his foot. He looked down, mulling over his options.

“I’ll… hop home?” But she had already walked past and up the stairs, pulling car keys out of her pocket. “I’ll drive you.”

“Oh- thanks! You don’t have to.” He mumbled the last part out of obligation but hoped she would ignore it.

“No problem.” She called over to the kids, “Hey, I’ll be right back, I have to drive Peter home. Dash, stop jumping on the couch-” Dash turned his head innocently, one foot raised in the air like a greek statue. “Yes, I saw you do it.” Dash slunk back down onto the couch, scowling, and grabbed the remote, proceeding to press nearly every button on it. The baby, red hair spike and all, ran across the wood.

“Mama!” He reached up two chubby arms, then looked at Peter with suspicion, waving one hand up and down as he measured him up. “A da ba da.” Peter waved back.

“Hey, little guy. Bye bye.” The baby’s eyes widened in betrayal at his mother.

“No ba ba!” He grabbed on her pant leg and pulled, clearly daring her to go without him and face his teeny-tiny wrath. She sighed and picked him up.

“And I’m taking Jack Jack.” She walked out with him. Peter made a funny face at Jack Jack, who was looking over his mother’s shoulder, and Jack Jack gurgled in surprise.

“Yeah, I’m pretty funny,” he said.

“Hm?” Elastigirl asked, setting Jack Jack in his seat.

“Oh- no- I was, uh, talking to the baby.” He got in the backseat on the opposite side as the baby, who continued to peer at him as the car started.

“Hey, is this yours?” Peter picked up a giraffe squeaky toy from the middle seat and waved it at Jack Jack, who lit up like he’d lost it for years.

“A ga!” He snatched it from Peter with surprising force.

“Yeah, gir-raffe,” Peter said slowly.

“A ga!” Jack Jack hit the giraffe’s head on his seat.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I said,” Peter approved. Jack Jack bit onto the toy, smug.

“A da ba ga,” he explained with a scholarly air.

Peter nodded seriously. “Yeah, say it like it is.”

“Ada GAAA ba da!” Jack Jack threw both of his arms out expressively.

“Really?” he said, raising his eyebrows, “Then what happened?”

“A ba ga.” Jack Jack gave a little shrug- or maybe Peter was mistaken, but it sure looked like one- and bit down on the giraffe head.

“You must be so brave.” He snapped out of the pseudo-conversation when he heard Elastigirl snort.

“Aga!” Jack Jack declared joyously.

“Did you make a friend?” She turned her head for a moment to look back at Jack Jack.

Jack Jack reached his hand out to Peter on cue, who shook it.

“We’re primarily acquaintances at the moment until he gives me my full review,” Peter confirmed. Jack Jack patted their shaking hands with the giraffe’s slobbery head. “Actually, he just gave me his slobber, so we might make it official.”

“Sounds about right.” Elastigirl was smiling.

“Do you have a normal name? I keep saying Elastigirl in my head,” Peter admitted, “and it feels a little weird.”

“Mrs. Parr is good.” Peter nodded, repeating it softly to get a taste for the words, then turned back to Jack Jack.

“How’s that giraffe tasting?” Jack Jack took a particularly aggressive bite. “Mm, looks good.” Jack Jack looked down at the giraffe, then waved it at Peter, grinning with his gums.

“Na ga?” Some slobber rolled down the giraffe’s snout and dripped on the seat between them.

“Oh, no, I’m good, you keep working on it.”

“Na ga!” Jack Jack insisted, moving it closer to Peter’s face. His face darkened, threatening to turn the car ride sour with a few well-placed screams.

“Nom,” Peter took a wide bite of the air next to the giraffe head, chewed intently, then swallowed comically so that his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Mmm.” Jack Jack squealed, kicking his legs, demanding to know if his mother saw. Peter laughed effortlessly; babies are always so much easier to deal with than adults.

“You’re good with him,” Elastigirl- Mrs. Parr- said as she took a right turn onto a bridge that led into the cityscape.

“Thanks. I babysit the kids across the hall sometimes, so-” He turned his attention to Jack Jack, who had offered the giraffe again. “Nom.” The continued as if he hadn’t paused, “I get lots of practice.” The kind of experience he didn’t get from siblings, that is. It can be nice, just him and May, and it’s one less person to keep a secret from, but sometimes he wished he had a little brother or sister to keep things exciting. Mrs. Parr’s eyebrows raised hopefully at “babysitting.”

“Well, Jack Jack is a super, so we can’t leave him with anybody.” Peter nodded, forgetting he was a super himself for a moment.

“That’s tough.”

“They probably couldn’t deal once he started floating,” she suggested again, but Peter was looking out over the water as they crossed on the bridge.

“Most people can’t,” he agreed.

“Could you?”

“Yeah, probably,” he said, but then his thoughts caught up to his mouth and he looked away from the window. “Wait, are you offering me a job?”

“I’m thinking about it,” she said noncommittally. Peter’s back straightened in the seat.

“You’re offering me a job.” And you’d pay way more than the family across the hall, his empty pockets screamed.

“If we ever needed you,” she qualified, “then-”

“I’ll do it. Anytime. Except for school hours. But that’s obvious. If you-”

“Alright, breathe.” But Mrs. Parr was smiling now as she rolled up to his building. “Here you are.”

“Thanks for the ride.” He slid out of his seat and gave a little wave. “Bye, Jack Jack.”

Jack Jack waved back with a smile. “A ba ba!”

“You have my number if you need it!” He shut the door to the minivan and turned, smiling, to the building. Peter slid across the lobby floor to disappear behind the metal doors of the elevator that perpetually smelled like baking soda, despite having tile floors. For the first time in what felt like days, he allowed himself to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally cutting Peter some slack-- or so it seems. Thanks for reading and as always, give it a little love if you liked it and I'll see you next chapter! For real, I need to start writing tons more or this chapter-a-day streak will come back to haunt me.


	6. Of Theme Songs and Chicken Noodle Soup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!  
> I know, I broke the one-a-day streak. I spent the last few days preparing for/going on an across-the-world vacation. It'll be harder now to find the time to write now that I'm vacation-ing, but rest assured it will happen!  
> Without further ado...

“Peter, I don’t think this is allowed.” Ned stuffed his hands in his pockets, glancing at the door.

Peter’s upper half was hidden in a mini-fridge at the back of the science lab. “I don’t need that much.” Peter drew his hand out of the fridge, holding a steaming block of dry ice in a pair of thick blue rubber gloves. He lowered the cube carefully to rest with its ten brothers and sisters in Ned’s igloo cooler bag. “Maybe three-fourths of it, at the very most.” He leaned back inside while Ned hissed at him.

“This is why we can’t have nice things! You’re going to land us in detention. For a week!” He amended when “detention” failed to spark any hesitation in his best friend.

“Dude, this isn’t a container of dry ice,” Peter said in his most convincing Jedi mind-trick impression. Ned pinched the bridge of his nose as Peter continued, “It’s your lunch.”

“The frog’s in your mouth,” Ned mumbled. He threw his hands into the air in despair. “There’s no talking sense into you! None! If I-”

“Is there a problem, boys?” Mr. Brundt walked in the room cradling a break room coffee that his mustard vest already bore the stain of. Peter grabbed the lunchbox, slamming the fridge door in one swift motion.

“No. No problem,” Ned replied before Peter opened his mouth and let the frog leap out, spilling all of their secrets as effortlessly as it scattered water droplets on the floor. “I forgot my lunch in your class.” He snatched the bag from Peter with his best smile.

Mr. Brundt walked closer, nodding once. “Alright.” He leaned against a lab table, gesturing to the fridge with his coffee. “Go to the lunchroom, then.”

“Yessir,” they both echoed, scampering into the hallway. Ned’s week flashed before his eyes.

“That was close.”

“But we did it,” Peter smiled, taking the lunchbox back.

“No thanks to you. You better be glad I’m your best friend. Nobody else would help you steal dry ice for an at-home experiment you won’t even let me come over and do with you.” Ned’s authoritative tone slowly slipped into a whine. They turned the corner, glancing around for teachers and keeping their ears open for the click of high heels. “Which is why you need it, right?”

“Ned, I told you.” Peter pointedly didn’t make eye contact.

“Actually! You didn’t tell me anything. I’m just being supportive and not bugging you about it, even though I really, really, want to know.” He stared at Peter with what he intended to be intensity. “This is the part where you give in and tell me.”

“Or maybe this is the part where we stop talking about it?”

Ned narrowed his eyes. Peter thought he might start sweating.

“Is there a girl I don’t know about?”

Peter gagged. “What would I be doing? Refrigerating her?” He shook the bag in the air.

“I dunno. Guys like us, we have no game. If you’re not telling your best friend to infinity and beyond, it’s gotta be a girl.”

“I can’t even respond to that.”

“Technically-”

 

Peter felt less than menacing crawling around the vents with the igloo lunch box hung over his shoulder. Even so, that didn’t stop him from singing to himself as he went about his patrols.

“Spider-Man. Spider-Man. He shoots webs and.. Sticks to walls.” Peter shook his head, “no, that doesn’t even rhyme.” He slid down the next passage. “Man, fan, Dan, tan, can. Oh, can is good.” He peeked down a vent, then continued to crawl, listening for the whoosh of air. “Spider-Man, Spider-Man, he can do… anything a spider can! Shoots some webs. Sticks to walls. I don’t know what else to sing,” he continued to the same tune. “Wears some blue. And some red. But this song sucks so now he’s sad.” He kept humming the song as he went.

“Mm h-hm, mm h-hm, m hm hm hm-hm hm h-hm. La di da. La di di. La di da di da da di di-” A howl echoed down the vent. “Oh! Gotta fight now, chorus later.” He spun himself around, scrambling to grab on the metal paneling below in the moments he was suspended in mid-air. He only bumped his shoulder once- ow, make that twice- as he bounded down. Peter slid to a stop over the vent, bursting with excitement.

A player was bent over a sink, gagging. His dark hair dripped with sweat and his hands slid as he tried to hold onto the porcelain. Peter dropped through the vent, holding a block of ice.

“Over here!” He leapt at the player, but the wind whooshed away, leading Peter to press the ice against the player’s neck for a moment.

“Agh!” He flinched, grabbing the side of his neck.

“So sorry, I’m trying to-” he ducked when a hand swung his way and slid to the other side of the bathroom “-get the thing that was choking you!” The player stumbled back, gripping his neck with a meaty hand as it begun again. Peter threw the ice, barely a potato now, and it caught in the air, weighing it down like a net. Racing forward, Peter tossed two more beside the first. The shadow began to form again, writhing as it turned a barely-visible murky brown.

“Yes!” He threw another. It stuck to the shadow like it was caught in a web, sucking the air inwards, condensing it into a human form. Dark brown pools ebbed around the ice like halos as they continued to steam smaller and smaller. Peter threw three more in his excitement, two landing on what seemed to be the beginnings of arms and one on a leg. The football player was leaning against the tile walls, his eyes wide as they reflected the spectacle of steam and shadow before him.

“What is that?” He wheezed, pointing at the shadow. It had begun to make howls that sounded more and more human as the ice sucked the heat in.

“Uh, I’m not sure, but the heat in the gas is trying to find equilibrium with the cold ice and so it’s leaving the gaseous state and it’s WORKING!”

The player wiped his sweaty face, staring with clear confusion. “Wait, are you a vigilante or a scientist?”

The shadow howled, kicking a leg out at Peter. “Neither, get out of here, go, go!” Peter had anticipated the football player to play tough, not flee the room so quickly it was as if he hadn’t been crouched against the wall moments earlier. He looked into the lunchbox; three blocks sat at the bottom, steaming slowly. He took them in his hands, tossing them at the neck, right leg, and chest of the shadow. A mouth and nose began to form, open with a scream. Legs kicked and little toes stuck out of the ends of the feet. The moment it began to take a solid form, as dusty as it still appeared, Peter shot his first web, half expecting it to pass through still. To his surprise, it stuck.

“Sorry, but I’ve gotta apprehend you now.” He shot web after web until the body was in a cocoon. By the time he had swung it into a wall, roping it down, the face was fully formed, a light brown reminiscent of the hazy shadow it once was. Peter moved forward tentatively. Shoot, so Ned was right. It was a girl. He made a mental note to tell him later.

“Hello, Miss Criminal? It’s Spider-Man.” Her jaw clenched.

“I’ve seen you before,” she muttered in a low voice, shaking her tight curls out of her face.

“Yeah, when you slammed me into a wall, probably. Twice, at least. I’ve gotta ask, how do you release your body like that? Do you-”

“You burned me,” she spat. Peter shook his head.

“No, I was cooling you down to force you into a solid form that I could…” His eyes caught a portion of her unwebbed neck. A raw red patch was seared into her skin and Peter started. “I’m…” She didn’t wait for his apology.

“You need to get out of my way.” Her dark brown eyes were seared with the same grief Peter had run from nearly all his life. She had met with loss, the old man with the cigar that spat ash on whatever he was finished with regardless if you were or not, before.

Peter crossed his arms, starting slowly. “With all due respect, and I’m sorry about the burn, but I’ve gotta stop crime, and I dunno why you’ve been strangling these guys, but you need to know… that’s not the answer. You need to-”

“Don’t lecture me.” There was no doubt dripping from her words, but an image, solid and clear: authority. It wasn’t natural to possess when webbed to a wall. Her strength reverberated, and Peter had to keep himself from hesitating.

“Fine.” He pulled out his phone. “But it’s my civic duty to call the police.” He tapped the numbers, eyeing her for a reaction, a justification, maybe, but she had none.

In every way, she was entirely unexpected.

“This isn’t your fight, Spider-Man. It never was.” A lioness, he decided.

“Alright.” He pocketed his phone, nodding to her. “Nice to meet you…?”

“Vaporizer.” She tossed her head so that a small bit of unruly hair fell back into place.

“Nice to meet you, Vaporizer.” With that, he left the room, Igloo lunch box in hand.

He didn’t keep up the act for long and immediately asked the football player who had fled to the hall to call 911. What seemed like a brave move on the part of the superhero was honestly the realization that he couldn’t give his personal number to police. For some reason, he found himself hoping she had been a little impressed and maybe surprised. He shouldn’t have expected so much.

 

Peter hadn’t watched the news much before he gained his powers. Once he had, Peter tuned into every tragedy, wishing that he had the ability to step in and save the day.

Everything that he had expected then had been romanticized. What he thought was going to be fun, maybe even honorable, had ended up being a pile of terrifying hard decisions- decisions that he, Peter, had to make in the spur of the moment. Like yesterday.

If you asked him if choking people to death was wrong, Peter would say yes, no hesitation.

But had he known that this girl, bravely standing on the defendant’s stand, visible on screens across the world, had been assaulted by the football player he had saved yesterday? That Mr. Derringer had made a public statement defending that same player’s actions just a week earlier to the news, and the team physician was quick to cover up the tracks? To say he felt queasy watching the news coverage of her trial was an understatement.

Truth be told, it made him a little sick. Multiple times, in the toilet.

 

Peter moved his head from where he had it pressed in his pillow when he heard a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he mumbled. May came in with a bowl of soup and a thermometer.

“Hey, sport.” She sat on the edge of his bed. “When did you start to feel sick?”

He rolled onto his back. “Just today. But I’m not feeling hot.”

“Nu-uh, no playing tough guy.” She stuck the thermometer in his mouth and waited. She slipped the cold glass out of his mouth again and peered at the temperature.

“Looks normal,” she admitted, “but you don’t seem so good.” She set the bowl of soup on his nightstand. The noodles sloshed and a few carrots floated on the surface.

“I just want to stay in bed today.” He wished he could tell her why he felt so gut-wrenchingly awful, how the news had sapped all his energy and left him feeling like a shell. Yet despite not knowing, despite all the lies, May always reacted perfectly: with a soft smile and understanding.

“Alright. Puking is never fun, is it?” She tousled his hair in her fingers.

Peter shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

“If you need anything, I’ll be a shout away. Mkay?”

He didn’t want her to go, but he found himself nodding anyways. “Mkay.”

She smiled, running her fingers through his soft chestnut hair once more, then rose, walking towards the door in the most ridiculous bunny slippers he had bought for her birthday. “Eat when you can and rest.”

“Alright, May.”

She smiled. “I love you.”

He felt a little bit of his heart fill up again. “I love you too, May.”

She didn’t shut the door all the way, instead leaving it cracked open. Somehow, this made all the difference.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who signed up for an emotional rollercoaster? Peter didn't, that's for sure.  
> As always, leave some love if you liked it and I'll be sure to send some right on back. Until next chapter!


	7. Of Blocks and Bankruptcy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to a thousand views and surpassed 50 kudos; I couldn't be more pleased. Thank you for all of your support!  
> Without further ado...

Peter walked down the street, hands in his pockets. May had pushed him out the door with a five dollar bill and some words of encouragement to get out and grab something yummy. If it hadn’t been food bribery, he would’ve stayed home, but she knew he couldn’t refuse.

“Hello?”

“Hm?” Peter looked away from the display of TV screens in the opposite window.

“I asked what you’d like to order,” the girl in the green polo asked; her nametag read “CHELSEY.” Peter glanced at the laminated menu taped to the inside of the small display window.

“One churro, please, with chocolate drizzle.” She nodded, taking a churro off of the rack. With some deft motions, she slipped the churro into a paper sleeve and dispensed the chocolate out of a small glass cruet onto the churro. A drop formed on the metal lip when she set it down.

“That’ll be one dollar and eighty-nine cents.” He handed over the bill, taking the dollar and change in one hand and the warm churro in the other.

“Thanks.” He stuffed the money into his pocket and started to walk, slowing in front of the wall of TV screens. Peter took a bite of the churro. Once he’d opened his eyes from the moment of savoring, he noticed chocolate syrup lining his top lip in the display window. He licked it off, thinking briefly of the matching moustaches that him and Ned wanted to grow someday, but then focused his attention on the newscaster.

His deep voice echoed through the glass, “Police reports have shown burn marks in multiple locations on the victim. Despite claims that these were collateral damage in the fight by the witness, Derek Reid, many are left wondering if Supers can handle these situations as humanely as law enforcement. Continued investigations have shown…”

“Burnin’ the lady all over, you’d think these were the middle ages.” An old man in a plaid ascot cap picked at his teeth with a wooden toothpick. Peter glanced at him, realizing they were the only people at the window.

“Uh, yeah.” He took another bite of his churro.

“I remember back in the day when Supers were all over, nothing like this ever happened. I guess kids your age wouldn’t remember the old days. Nothing like this would’ve ever happened with Gazerbeam.” He wagged a bony finger in the air. “Always took them to the police, he did, and had them dealt with by the law.”

“But… that’s what Spider-Man did, isn’t it?”

“Ah, but in one piece? He barely managed it.” He smacked his leathery lips. “I hope he learns.” He glanced at the window once more, then continued on his way down the street.

“Yeah, well you try,” Peter mumbled, walking back towards his apartment building. He bit into the churro a bit aggressively in an attempt to release his nerves. Watching the skyline, he wondered what happened to the old greats. If they were so great, why haven’t they leapt out of hiding? His phone buzzed in his pockets, jerking him out of his thoughts. He licked the smear of chocolate on his finger before he used his fingerprint ID. He pulled his phone to his ear, still chewing a bit.

“Herro?” He swallowed. “Who is this?”

“Hey, Peter,” he recognized Mrs. Parr’s voice. “I saw you handled the Vaporizer situation.”

“Yeah, kinda,” he qualified.

“You had to deal with us and an invisible villain. You can give yourself some credit.” He could hear Jack Jack screech in the background. “Anyways, are you free tonight?”

“Is there another situation?” He started to swell with pride that she was asking him to help, even if he was afraid of another failure.

“Oh, no, to babysit.”

“To-?” He swallowed his disappointment. “Uhm, sure, I’m free.” He took another bite of churro, the chocolate still delightfully warm and sweet.

“Great. And before I forget, Bob got your paperwork from Rick Dicker, he said-” There was a loud clattering and what sounded like an explosion. Pots and pans, Peter hoped. “Oh, I’ve got to handle this. Come at 6:30.”

“Sure, okay, bye, I’ll-”

“Kay, bye bye.” The call clicked to an end.

“-see you then.” He slipped his phone into his pocket.

 

“Hey, May, I’m going out.” He picked up the grey-blue backpack where he kept his survival kit.

“Out where?” She came out of her room, holding a bag of popcorn. She always watched “not-Peter-appropriate” movies on her laptop in her room, by which she meant Game of Thrones; she claimed it was too gruesome and “clothing-optional.” Peter just wanted to see the dragons.

“I got a babysitting job.” He grabbed a house key from the bowl. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

She smiled to herself. “So you’re feeling better?”

“Yeah, the churro really helped. Plus,” Peter pulled out one of his pockets and she laughed. “I got no dough.”

“Stay safe and shoot me a text when you’ve got an estimated end time. Kay?”

“Kaay.” He opened the door. “Byeee.”

“You didn’t give me a hug.”

Peter slid out the door. “Oh dear, it’s like I’m already out the door, no hugs today,” he teased. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a quick hug.

“Noo, she got me,” he said dramatically.

“You’re a goof.” May practically pushed him out the door.

“The best goof!” Peter pranced to the elevator, backpack slung over his shoulder.

 

The problem with babysitting in the suburbs when you don’t drive nor does your guardian own a car is you have to walk from the subway stop to their house. Even worse, he grossly underestimated how long it took to walk through a neighborhood, so after checking his phone’s GPS five times and the clock thrice, he decided he was going to have to run for it.

“Ah!” He jumped, nearly stepping on an ambling cat who instantly shrunk into a mailbox post and hissed. He kept running until he made it to their house which, curse their outdoor architect, had way too much land surrounding it. He’d never owned a yard, but he was pretty sure there was no use for this much space other than as a football field.

Needless to say, by the time he arrived at their front door, he was a just a little sweaty, which was a new feeling. Spider-Man doesn’t get sweaty, but Peter Parker in the suburbs apparently did. He planned on taking a moment to breathe and compose himself before opening the door when a camera lens popped out, zeroing in on his face.

“Hi?” A moment later, the door opened. Mrs. Parr was already suited up. Figures that he would be a babysitter instead of fighting crime.

“Hey, come in.” She smiled, opening the door. He walked in, bathing in the irony that the last time he entered this house, he was in shackles. The Parr family seemed to be a very forgiving bunch.

“So, key stuff I should know?” He kept the backpack on but took his shoes off at the door.

“In all, he has seventeen separate abilities.”

Peter wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. “Seventeen?” His survival backpack suddenly felt grossly underpacked.

“Yeah, the ones you really have to worry about are the setting on fire and the rage monster transformation.” Mrs. Parr was taking out a white tub of formula and a bottle for him.

Is this what people meant by “below my pay grade”? Peter supposed he would find out soon.

“But we have him in his suit, which can set out the fire. You can detect when he switches dimensions by checking this screen.” She handed him a tablet that looked like the remote control for a toy helicopter. “Other than that, he’s a normal baby.”

“Piece of cake,” Peter lied.

“Bedtime is seven-thirty, but take as long as you can to put him down. If you leave too quickly, he wakes up again and again.”

“Mhm, eight, got it.” A red beam spun past him and without thinking twice, he leapt onto the kitchen island. He saw an incoming projectile and caught it in the air. He turned the nerf bullet in his hands. “Who?” He caught another that was headed for his forehead.

“Dash, stop harassing him or you aren’t going anywhere,” Mrs. Parr chastised. Dash appeared as he stilled across the kitchen.

“How the heck did you catch those?” He walked up, holding up his hand expectantly. Peter dropped them in his open hand.

“Trade secret.” He jumped down from the counter. “Sorry about standing on your counter.”

“Oh, no problem,” Mrs. Parr waved her hand. “Here, let me show you where his room is.”

Other than the control, it all seemed pretty normal; turn on his white noise machine, read him a book, put a lid on his crib-

“Say what?” He looked at the lid. “Really?” The crib had slats, so there was no breathing hazard, but…

“Super kids are something else. Trust me, you’ll want to use it.” She leaned it against the wall. Peter could only nod at the absurdity of needing a crib lid. Then again, a baby with spider powers would be crazy, especially for non-wall-climbing parents. He now saw the advantage of being such a late bloomer.

When they were back in the living room, Peter watched as the family filed out to the Incredibile. Mrs. Parr hung back, picking Jack Jack up off the floor when he approached her.

“Look, Jack Jack, here’s Peter.” She pointed to him. “Be good?”

Jack Jack pointed at Peter. “A fa da!”

“Yes, exactly. You’re going to have fun.” She handed him over to Peter, who put on his best smile.

“Hey, buddy. It’s just you and me.” Jack Jack patted his cheeks and babbled. “Yep, you and me.” Elastigirl began to sneak out of the door, using her abilities for maximum stealth. Jack Jack went to turn his head to the door, but Peter blurted. “Hey, wanna play?” The door shut while Jack Jack focused on him.

Peter won the battle, but he still had the war to fight.

“Yeah, you and me, we’re going to play. And it’s going to be so great you’ll fall asleep the second I put you to bed out of sheer gratitude,” Peter rambled, mostly to himself, as he walked into the living room. He pulled out a basket with his adhesive foot to the middle of the room.

“Blocks are so fun, aren’t they?” He set Jack Jack down and tipped the basket over in front of him. The alphabet tumbled, scattering on the floor in a rainbow array. Jack Jack picked up one, tracing the letter on it.

“Do you like to build towers?” Peter stacked four of them to demonstrate. Jack Jack stuck out his tongue, carefully setting the yellow “E” block on top.

“Good job!” Peter praised, starting his own tower beside Jack Jack’s. “We can make a city of towers, then smash them all down.” Jack Jack didn’t seem to pay attention to his words as he carefully stacked a red “B.” By the time Jack Jack had his tower stacked up eight tall, Peter had assembled six others.

“Watch this.” Peter smiled, knocking one of his down. “Raah!”

Jack Jack absolutely beamed. He tossed his whole body at the others, squealing. Peter laughed, grabbing them off the floor.

“Again?” He quickly stacked three more towers for Jack Jack to plow through while he cackled madly. When he turned to make another, he suddenly heard a “whoosh.” He had to swallow a yelp when he saw Jack Jack burning, shaking a block as it turned to ash, giggling all the while. Peter leapt over the couch, grabbing the remote off the counter and quickly clicking the extinguish button. When he turned around, Jack Jack was giggling in a mound of purple suds, touching the pile of ash he had created. Peter crawled back over the couch to him.

“Okay, let’s build another.” He stacked this one up cautiously, eyeing Jack Jack with skepticism, ready to leap for the remote. He had it up eleven blocks and no response, so Peter kept stacking it, when Jack Jack floated into view.

“A-what?” He gagged. Jack Jack paid no mind, setting the block on top and babbling. Peter numbly passed him another block, which Jack Jack placed.

“You know… this is actually pretty fun.” He gave him three more, which Jack Jack set, until the tower wobbled and fell, to Jack Jack’s immediate delight.

“Ee!” He squealed, floating higher up. Peter stood, reaching up, but he was already too far away. “Uh, come down?”

Jack Jack rolled in the air, holding his feet. “Ah-weee!”

Peter had begun to look around for something to bring him down when he remembered he was at full liberty to use his powers. He jumped on the wall, crawling up to the ceiling where Jack Jack bounced, giggling, like a trapped balloon.

“Hey, Jack Jack.” He grabbed the baby, pulling him out of the air while he gazed at Peter with surprised delight.

“A doo ga da?” He waved his arm. The purple suds from earlier dripped out of his sleeve and splattered on the floor.

“Yeah, Petey went climbing.” He crawled down the walls, holding Jack Jack with one arm. With all the caution that could be had, he set him slowly down, pausing to make sure he wouldn’t float again. Once Peter was sure Jack Jack had gone from helium to carbon content, he settled back down on the floor. Jack Jack had begun to hit two of the blocks together, cute as can be.

“You’re not a little rage monster, are you? No, just playing with blocks.” Jack Jack tried to munch on one of them to no avail. Peter lay on his side, propping up his head with his arm. He rolled a block to Jack Jack’s feet, and when that earned a smile, repeated the action four more times.

“Here comes another grenade! Ahh.” Peter rolled it and as if on cue, Jack Jack tossed it away. “Smart move. Here comes the bus.” He rolled another. Jack Jack smashed it with a green “H.”

“Oh no, I hope there weren’t too many people in there.” Jack Jack laughed. “You think it’s funny? Here comes another bus.” He tossed the block, which bumped into Jack Jack’s foot. He made his voice comically high pitched. “Please don’t smash us, giant baby!” Jack Jack cackled, smashing it again.

“A ba raaah!” He slammed the block down so hard on the edge of the other that it span upwards. It would’ve been a cool physics demonstration had it not pinned Jack Jack on his button nose.

“Watch out- ouch, that’s no good.” Peter sat up, reaching out to comfort him.

Jack Jack quickly phased through all available emotions. He stared down in shock that the block had gone the wrong way, wrinkled his nose in confusion that it had hit his nose, began to sniffle when he felt a stinging twinge of pain, and finally, curled up his little fist in anger at the malignant block. He slammed down his block on it again, his skin rapidly turning purple.

“A ba RAH!” He exclaimed as his skin stretched and transformed.

“Wait no don’t do that maybe- hey,” Peter kept his arms out, but Jack Jack had zeroed in on the block, stuffing in his fanged mouth.

“A BR GR!” He bit down, smashing it into little bits, then began to try and spit the splinters out that clung to his massive, lolling tongue.

“Let me help.” Peter reached forward; he can handle a little spit. Jack Jack turned and made eye contact with Peter.

“A brraaagh,” he growled, flexing his hands. His tongue swayed, flopping like a fish out of water.

“It’s me, it’s Peter. Let’s, uh, play a different game and think about how calm we want to be from here on out.” Peter reached out his hand to grab something from the basket, but Jack Jack leapt forward, grabbing his arm and throwing it to the side.

“A BA GA!” He demanded, throwing the basket as well. He leapt after Peter’s arm for good measure, who evaded him by a hair.

“Happy baby? Calm baby?” Peter leapt on the sofa, jumping from seat to coffee table to the wall as Jack Jack pursued him, roaring. Peter climbed three feet up the wall as Jack Jack attempted to maul the drywall in his rage. “Hey, Jack Jack, if you calm down, we can, uhm-” He scanned the room. “We can play toys-”

“A GRAA!” Jack Jack leapt in the air, swiping for Peter’s legs.

“- okay, yeah, toys are overrated, how about we play music?” He vaguely remembered something online about it, but felt dumb after suggesting it. What shocked him was Jack Jack’s near-immediate transformation.

“A moo?” He patted the wall hopefully. His red spike of hair slowly popped up out of his head as his skin faded from purple to peach.

“Uh, yeah, music.” Peter crawled down to him. “You like that?”

“A moo!” Jack Jack exclaimed, toddling over to a speaker. He waved the remote in Peter’s direction.

“Sure, let’s get some tunes on. Once I..” A click later and classical music was echoing around the room. Jack Jack began to sway and toddle a bit drunkenly to the violin, sweeping his hands about. Peter laughed.

“You’ve got taste,” he joked, sweeping the blocks back into the basket with his hands and feet. He leapt over the couch into the kitchen again, grabbing a paper towel to return to the spot on the carpet dotted with spit and splinters. Peter wondered how cool it would be if he could jump around like this all the time without worrying about exposing himself. Just for fun, he flipped over the couch on his way back.

“A oo!” Jack Jack commented, clapping.

“Thank you, thank you,” Peter bowed twice, then crouched down over the mess. When he looked back at Jack Jack, the baby had his butt in the air as he attempted a forward roll. With an emphasized grunt, he flopped on his side, unsuccessful. Peter put the paper towel to the side and crawled over.

“Let me help. Stand up.” He held Jack Jack around his middle, leaning him forward. “Hands on the floor, and-” he helped him through the roll. Jack Jack laughed at the end of the tumble, running back into Peter’s hands again.

“Here we go.” Peter rolled him again. “And he sticks the landing!” He made him stand with his arms held up. He continued in a hazy announcer voice, “we can’t believe it, he just won the gold, the crowd is going wild, aaaa!” He tickled Jack Jack’s sides, who giggled madly. Peter always laughs the most around babies, but you’d have to be a Scrooge not to. He glanced at his phone screen.

“Looks like it’s about time to wind down.” He walked to the kitchen with Jack Jack, who was babbling conversationally as he padded along beside him. Peter put the bottle full of water in the microwave and set it for thirty seconds.

“A bllbbb baga da.” Jack Jack stared up at him.

“I’m getting your bottle ready. What’s new with you?” He opened it right before the beep.

“Meh, baga.” He waved a small hand in the air dismissively.

“Yeah, I rage quit as a purple monster and attempt to eat my babysitter most nights, too.” He dunked in the formula while he spoke, screwing on the top and shaking the bottle.

“A ba da.” Jack Jack had put himself into the position to forward roll once again, wiggling as he tried to kick up.

“How about we take this up to your room?” Peter picked him up with his free hand. “And you can pick a book and we’ll get so tired you might just pass out from sheer exhaustion. Remember that plan? It’s my favorite plan.” Jack Jack was busy pulling Peter’s earlobe and squishing it with surprising force. “Right after we tear my ear off. How could I forget.”

Once in his room, Peter looked through the book pile.

“No Dr. Seuss? What kind of toll is that going to take on your generation?” He stared at the titles. “I know none of these, you gotta pick.”

Jack Jack pointed. “A ee moo!” Peter picked it up. It was a pink and blue book with a black and white cow in full cooking gear slapped on the front.

“An Icey Cow Goes Moo… Uh, okay.” He sat down, shifting Jack Jack in his lap and offering him the bottle.

“An Icey Cow Goes Moo by Dick-” Peter made an inhuman noise trying to stifle his laugh “-Watson. Illustrations by.. Dick Watson.” He turned the page. “Icey the cow loves ice cream. She drives everywhere in her ice cream truck. She serves vanilla, rhubarb, and raisin, too.” Peter made a face. “What’s going on in the ice cream industry?”

“Nah!” Jack Jack whacked the page.

“Right, no comments.” He cleared his throat. “Everyone loved Icey’s Ice Cream. One day, another truck came into town. It was big and red and sold ice cream, too, but this truck only served chocolate ice cream.” The evil looking bull on the page was dark brown and had steam billowing out of his nostrils. “Suddenly, Icey began to go bankrupt-” Peter squinted at the page. “What the heck?” Jack Jack grunted and hit the page again. Peter continued, voice unsure. “- which made her cry and cry. ‘Nobody wants my ice cream!’ She said. ‘Moo-hoo.’ Suddenly, the ghost of ice cream cows came to her in a dream.” A cream-colored cow with a striking resemblance to Gordon Ramsey had graced the page. “‘I’m sorry you’re bankrupt,’ he said, ‘but maybe try mixing your own chocolate ice cream. You have to reintroduce competition back into the market or you’re roast beef.’”

“Heh, beef puns.” He turned the page. “With that, he faded away. Immediately, Icey got straight to work. She made tubs of chocolate ice cream to sell with her vanilla, rhubarb, and raisin. Suddenly, competition was reintroduced and all the customers were happy again. The end.”

Peter closed the book, staring at it in confusion. “But what happened to the brown cow? What is this-” He turned the book over to read the summary on the back. “Icey the cow just wants to sell moore ice cream! This charming tale will teach your children capitalism right along with their abc’s?” He looked down at Jack Jack. “You like this stuff?”

Jack Jack waved his arm at the pile of books. Peter grabbed another one, stretching his arm out.

“Please be normal.” He looked at the cover. A frog was leaping from one lily pad to another. “Okay, let’s give this a shot. Hibbity Ribbity by Darcy Hodges.”

“Hibbity Ribbity liked to Ribbit, Ribbit, Ribbit. He ribbited at breakfast, he ribbited at lunch, he ribbited a whole lot, a whole bunch.”

“He ribbited when he played, he ribbited when he sprang, he ribbited and ribbited until one day…” The bright colors went black when Peter turned the page.

“Hibbity Ribbity had caught a bug, deep in his throat, nice and snug. He could not cough it out- stamp it out- slam it out- burp it out.” The frog had various stages of emotional crisis in multiple locations.

“He could not pull it out, squeeze it out, or burn it out.” The frog looked ready to throw himself into the flames of his fireplace. Peter gulped.

“Uh… He could not ribbit, and that made him sad, he couldn’t communicate, and got very mad.”

“He broke his table, he broke his chairs, he ransacked his house, he destroyed everywhere.” The frog had gone red in the face with rage.

“Once everything was broken, he had to move on, but he just couldn’t, so he went out to his lawn.” The frog slammed his front door.

“He beheaded the gnomes, he flipped the bench, he smashed all the pots in with a handy wrench.” The frog seemed a little too happy doing so.

“When he saw what he had done, and the mess he made, he began to cry, nobody could come to his aid.” The frog sobbed in visual distress.

“And as he sobbed, he felt a tickle, and a bug flew out, just bigger than a nickel. ‘Cry when you’re sad, don’t bottle it up. Just let it all out, yup yup yup.’ So he flew away, and Hibbity began to clean, all the while ribbit-ribbit-ribbit-ing.” Peter looked down at Jack Jack, whose eyes floated, half closed, and set the book down slowly.

He began the acrobatics of changing him and getting him in bed, all the while without a single jostle or noise. As he laid him down in the crib, he finally let out the breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding. He slowly lowered the lid down, feeling slightly ridiculous as he did so. He backed up and sat in the chair, deciding to wait a good ten minutes to make sure it’d stick. When he was sure he had to be asleep, Peter tiptoed out with all the skill he had needed back at the stadium.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited babysitting is finally here! Having a character express themselves entirely through human noises can be a challenge. Either way, if all else fails, I could become a writer of children's books-- with fewer dark themes, of course. Leave some love if you liked it and my next chapter will (eventually, in light of my vacation) be released!


	8. Of Shrek and Socks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vacation ended and became school. I've had this chapter (and others) done for a while, but I've got to pace myself with updates. I hope this makes up for the wait. Without further ado...

Usually, once the kids are in bed, Peter would give the house a once-over and make sure it was better than when the parents left it- put away the dishes, remove any evidence of children or yourself, etc. But as he took a look around, they’d left him next to nothing. He had all the dishes away in a few minutes then was faced by a near-empty house. It was almost as if they didn’t have enough things to fill it.

“Okay,” he said to himself, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He began to wander around, looking for a job, but eventually just started snooping for where they must hide their infinite amount of junk.

After looking in three closets that bore mostly empty shelves, he was beginning to go a little crazy.

“You’ve got to have flaws,” he muttered. They were making his room look like a barn. He poked his head into bathrooms and even looked at the backyard patio. A few balls were strewn around. He tossed them into the basket in the corner quickly, then headed inside. That can’t be the only evidence of human life here.

“Come on, you’re Americans. Where’s the mess?”

The house didn’t reply. Then he hit the jackpot. He opened a door, turning on the lights, and it finally illuminated his long-searched-for chaos. He stepped into the office, looking at the posters that lined the walls in awe. Posters, magazines, and newspapers hid the paint beneath. Trophy cases contained awards and a key to the city. Peter had to draw his hand back before he touched the glass. His breath made a circle of white as he read the etched words, all thanking Mr. Incredible for his life and service.

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” he muttered. Moving closer to the desk, he saw papers strewn everywhere. Most of them seemed completely random, some kind of updates. There was very little system; most clipped stacks had a sticky note on top at the least but overall, it seemed as if he was either very busy, very messy, or struck by an incident out of nowhere. Peter ruffled a stack of sticky notes as he glanced over the titles: Jet Thru House Payments, Helen- Suit, J-J Suit Manual, House Change School Forms, P. Parker Registration. He recalled the forms Mrs. Parr said her husband had gathered from Dicker and picked up the stack. This is how he can become the poster on the wall, not a roaring “Spider Robber” headline. But geez, it was thick. He wasn’t looking forward to that homework. Peter set it back down, accidentally shifting the mouse to the side. The computer screen lit up, shining its white light on Peter’s face. “P. Parker” was clear on the subject line. He glanced over his shoulder out of habit and started reading the email, thinking there can’t possibly be anything here he himself didn’t have the right to know, but as he continued down, he wished he hadn’t.

He wasn’t sure when the sick feeling started to surface, but it only grew steadily worse as he read on.

… any information… cut off after age eight… placed with aunt… lost contact… the incident… sorry I couldn’t provide more.

Peter continued to scroll. A PDF link remained at the bottom of the page. Biting his lip, Peter clicked it.

He really, really shouldn’t have clicked it.

“Operation Kronos?” He whispered to himself, beginning the scroll down. The scroll bar indicated it had seventy pages, but Peter couldn’t see how any of those could relate to him. Images of supers were paired beside descriptions and data: last known location, occupation, secret identity.

Everseer had been living in a suburban area, working as a therapist- like my mom, Peter thought- and had suffered from OCD. Eliminated by v. XI. Peter read it twice- eliminated was the kind of words you used in a video game or a sci-fi movie, not to refer to… death? He hoped not.

But the words cropped up all over the page. Eliminated. V. XII, XIII, XVII. It seemed to be a list of more than twenty people, spanning over multiple pages. Their years of death went back a decade. Peter couldn’t think of taking on any of these heroes himself, much less attempting- was genocide too strong a word?

Genocide made him think of the Holocaust or militants in Rwanda, not a collection of heroes, people who have clear ways to defend themselves, but the continuing pages continued to haunt him.

“Omnidroid? Sounds like ominous.” He tried to lighten the mood for himself, but the sketches of the metal beasts’ body were eerily depicted. How did it eliminate them, he wondered- did it stab through them, or crush them in its claws?

Would it hurt? He scrolled past it quickly, hoping to erase the image from his mind.

The image that burst onto the screen as he continued to scroll was just a fourth of the page, the rest of it words, but it was all Peter could see. The smile, the swept up red spout of hair, his eyes that glinted with insanity, oh God- Peter stumbled away from the computer, grabbing his shirt. Blood roared in his ears and his eyes fogged over unpredictably. One moment he was in the real world, and the next he was trapped inside his body, struggling to breathe. He could practically hear the whispers in his mind.

Petey. They hissed. He slammed back into the wall behind him and grabbed at a filing cabinet to stay upright, slowly sliding down to the floor.

Show me what you can do, Petey. Isn’t that what they called you? Peter curled in on himself, hiding his head, but the more he shut the real world out, the more the other world came crashing in.

“No.. no,” he whimpered.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Peter’s mind cried out, but he sounded so small. Peter clawed at his arms as he held his legs close, digging into his skin in an attempt to remind himself of the real world. He kicked out a leg, but hit nothing and brought it back to his chest again, shaking horribly. His mind ebbed and swayed with the heavy black weight of tidal waves, crashing in and swallowing him up, weighing his thoughts down like lead as he succumbed to the overwhelming need to sleep.

 

He kicked his light-up sneakers on the leather seat. He’d never been on a plane before, but his mom was quick to slip him his Gameboy to distract him at takeoff. He had the strangely difficult Shrek 2 game in the slot when they left home so until they unpacked the rest, that was it for the trip.

His Shrek avatar crumbled into little pixels when the cloaked magic factory minions shot a green orb of magic potion at him.

“This level is unbeatable,” he declared as the screen transitioned from black to green with gaudy red lettering. He read them out loud in the snarky voice that can only be obtained from dying five hundred times. “YOU DIED. RETRY?”

His dad flicked a newspaper shut from the chair opposite. “Maybe if you spent less time swinging your legs and more time focusing,” he reached out and took the game, “you could beat it.” Peter ran to look over his shoulder.

“But you can’t beat it.”

“Yes, I can.” He clicked the “a” button and adjusted his oversized adult thumbs to the controls.

“No, you can’t. I played it five hundred times and I can’t,” Peter kept on.

“I have strategic skill. I can beat the fairy nuns,” his dad insisted somberly. His eyebrows shot up comically when his Shrek icon melted off the screen.

“But I clicked to jump!” He shook the Gameboy in his hand. “I jumped!”

“The guy in front of you didn’t shoot you, the guy behind you a level up from you did when you jumped!” Peter crowed, grabbing the game back with a grin.

His dad snapped the newspaper back into place, grumbling that he had been set up.

Peter got his face close enough to read the small print on the other side and whispered, “‘I have strategic skill.’”

The paper snapped down the next moment. He stuck his hand out like he might confiscate the toy, but then demanded, “Let me try again.”

“Nu-uh.” Peter smiled and put it behind his back.

“I wasn’t used to the controls. That’s why I lost.”

“Uh-huh.” Peter had a contagious smile, missing tooth and all. “Sure.”

His dad spluttered a bit, closed his eyes for a moment, and kept his hand extended expectantly. Peter put it in his hand and moved back to his side.

“This is your last chance,” he warned, “to prove your strategic skill.”

“I’ve defeated countless no-good sacks like this lot,” his dad declared. “How hard could it possibly be?” Shrek, however, seemed to lack the agility his dad claimed to have in real life and dissipated once again.

“Darn- darn no-good video game- simulation. Not even.. realistic,” he spluttered.

“Dad, it’s an ogre.”

“Sounds like you have a problem.” His mom walked over with a cup of tea, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“Dad sucks at video games,” he announced, rocking in his sneakers so they didn't stop flashing red and blue lights.

His dad jabbed his finger at the Gameboy. “I don’t suck. I don’t use words like suck, either. What about this implies anything to do with sucking?”

“He’s trying to lawyer his way out of it,” his mom said to Peter and took the game in her free hand. “Let’s see how bad this really is.” She sat on the armrest of her husband’s chair, passed her cup of tea to him in one swift motion, and she was off.

“It’s always easy in the beginning,” his dad claimed as he watched her.

As she continued on, he spoke up again. “It’s her fingers. They’re smaller than mine. Doesn't that make it easier?” She kept clicking away. “Honey,” he added.

When she leaped past the back-stabbing potion worker, his face had begun to get desperately close to the screen, searching for an explanation.

The game dinged. “Level complete,” she read with a pink-lipped smile. She handed the grey handheld over to Peter, who was grinning broadly, and took her cup of tea back from his dad’s frozen hand.

“Come on, don't be so stiff,” she touched her husband’s cheek and sipped her tea. “Beginner's luck.”

His dad seemed to brighten at the suggestion. “That would explain it,” he quipped. She laughed wholeheartedly, wiping one of her eyes when she snorted.

“Oh my goodness, are you sure you're the adult here?” Peter had wandered off to get some water from a little station near the pilot’s cabin.

“You know I can't resist some friendly competition.” He set the newspaper completely to the side and stretched his body out so his legs almost reached the seat opposite, grunting when something popped.

“You mean the thrill. You want the thrill.” Her fingers danced in the air to show the sparking energy coming off of him.

“I don't get-” she nudged his shoulder, cutting him off.

“Yes you do, you nerd, you.” When Peter had his plastic cup filled and had turned back, they were kissing for a brief moment. He screwed his eyes shut.

“Eww,” he complained, “now I've gotta wash my eyes out.”

“Peter,” his mother laughed, “don't be silly-”

The cabin rocked with the onset of turbulence, and Peter’s water sloshed out of the cup and onto his front. The seatbelt sign dinged on above them.

“In your seat.” His mother’s face had shifted instantaneously from playful to her serious, yet well-meaning, persona. Peter knew to listen to her like this and climbed into his seat, setting his water down into a cup holder beside him. The cabin jostled again and the water sloshed again, presenting the clear possibility of it spilling over once more. He could hear his mother speaking in the cabin over the comm, but paid no attention to her words, instead craning his head to see out the oval window to his left. The sea was calm and constant below them, but clouds whisked past unpredictably.

“It’s an automatically piloted plane,” his father reassured him in that calm, textbook way he always spoke. “There’s nothing to worry about.” Peter nodded and looked back at the window, his feet finally still.

“There aren’t any storms, as you can tell, and our course is sensitive to weather updates. There’s nearly no way for-” His well-paced, calm rumbling was forced to a halt when the plane dipped and Peter, as if he had been dunked into a cold tub of water, was flushed out of his dreamlike memories.

When Peter’s eyes opened again, black dots speckled his vision. It took a while for his hearing to clear, popping as if he was in the airplane still, caught in a rapid descent. He took a moment to breathe, tasting the sleep in his mouth and feeling the sluggish movement of askew limbs. Pushing himself up to a straight-backed sitting position, his mind left the hazy confusion of sleep.

He’s never been on a plane, and ever since the death of his parents, he was far too scared to ever attempt it himself, had Aunt May’s money even stretched far enough for a chance like that.

But the sensations of a quivering metal craft in flight and the weightless tossing seemed far too familiar. The looks on their faces, faces he had nearly forgotten with time, voices he remembered by videos rather than personal memory, and laughs long-gone- each rising scrap of memory both excited and perplexed him. Rising up from the hard floor, he rubbed life into his sore lower back and glanced to the computer again by chance alone. The face he saw there took his light elation and condensed it into a rock that fell into his stomach. Rubbing his temples, he struggled to recall that horrifying face, a name, a voice. What he dug up made him clench his jaw to keep from retching. He stumbled to the computer, removing the image from the screen and scrolled back to the top of the email, putting the computer promptly to sleep.

Whatever curiosity vibrated within him had been clenched in the claws in a far more real and stilling fear. He held himself in his arms, slowly backing out of the room and turning off the switch. When he turned, he half expected that face to leap out of the shadows and drag him down. Peter continued down the hallway with the tentative movements of a child who, spooked by some harmless movie, could see nothing but the creature’s face behind every corner, slipping behind them in silence.

Stilling in the middle of the hallway after a discarded sock he had stepped on nearly sent him flying into the air, he took a deep breath.

“This is ridiculous.” His voice sounded unconvinced. He kicked the sock away, but it stuck to his foot when he attempted it. Grunting, he stepped onto it with his other foot and kicked it away with that one, but the problem persisted. Frowning at his new attachment, he continued down the hall with the sock flopping like toilet paper does in the movies.

He ambled into the living room, doing his best to walk with control.

“Awa,” Jack Jack announced from the couch.

“AA- ohmygosh. You can’t do that.” Peter grabbed the fabric of his shirt and huffed. “How did you…” He looked between Jack Jack and the screen. “Oh, yeah, TV is fun, but not now,” he attempted to chastise, taking the remote from Jack Jack’s grabby fingers and setting it aside.

“Back to bed,” Peter sighed, picking him up with not even a second thought of how he’d escaped the crib in the first place.

He had thoughts of greater weight on his mind.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the Shrek 2 game as a kid and I only managed to beat that level returning to it later on in life. Too bad I didn't have Peter's mom to play it for me. Until next chapter!


	9. Of Galaga and Bucket Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it was worth the wait. Without further ado...

Peter had left the Parr house with the thick “ _P. Parker Registration_ ” packet, money he didn’t dare to count yet, and questions that buzzed and burned in his mind.

When he had faced Mrs. Parr, they had nearly dripped off of his tongue, but then the chance was gone and his confidence had dissipated too soon. The sight of Aunt May managed to ground him a little bit.

“They kept you late.” She had been sitting on the couch in her pajamas as she waited up for him. “I hope they paid extra.”

“I don’t know how much they paid me,” he admitted, pulling the wad of money out of his pocket and counting the twenties with wide eyes. He stuffed them back in his pocket, but she had already seen.

“There must’ve been a lot of kids.”

“They live in the suburbs.” It wasn’t a lie.

“Make sure to let them know you’re available. Text them if you have to.” She waved a finger at him for emphasis. “Don’t let them get away.”

“They won’t, they won’t,” he mumbled with a small smile. Aunt May walked back towards the couch, fishing the remote out from between couch cushions.

“Looks like he’s doing well for himself,” she commented, gesturing with the remote. Peter looked at the TV, where a man with a goatee and sunglasses paraded himself around a formal event. Stark Industries Presents Rising Threat to Devtech. “Especially after three months with a terrorist group.”

“He’s wearing sunglasses indoors,” was the first thing that came to Peter’s mind.

“Eccentric,” May agreed, turning off the TV. “Come on, it’s late.”

Peter scrubbed his face so hard in the hopes that he might be able to reach though his skin and bone into his mind and pull the burning images out, but all he managed to do was scratch a pimple. He stared at his face, dripping with suds and stained by a small mark of blood. In these moments, he felt as small as ever.

After he had splashed the soap off, he scrubbed his teeth with equal strength then threw himself into bed.

Staring around his dark room, Peter remembered when he was little and had convinced himself a pile of clothes in his closet was the Grinch. Doing the same with the face of a mass-murderer at his age would be silly. It would be.

 

The fat white stack of paper, once he had made the time to work on it secretly in his room, had turned out to be incredibly invasive.

Where you live, where you attend/have attended school, close and distant relatives, have you ever had an addiction?

No, he wrote, frowning at the paper.

After multiple pages bordering on irrelevant and over the deep end in what Peter continued personal territory he got to what had to be the strangest page in the entire packet.

“Do you know anyone killed by or aware of the Syndrome incident,” he mumbled. There were yes or no checkboxes down the entirety of the page. A disclaimer at the bottom clarified that the government was trying to establish a complete record on the remaining living Supers. Peter flipped back a few places to where the government had asked about the Super relocation program.

Shouldn’t they have known the instant anyone went off the map? One after the other, dozens of heroes later, someone must have noticed. He stared at the two pages side by side with a mounting sense of unease.

This didn’t make sense.

Something had to be wrong. They knew where they worked, their hours, every step they made out of the lines must have been meticulously recorded. If Peter had learned anything from this packet, it’s that the government is full of nosy, overinvolved, afraid people. So afraid they had to stifle this force for years and-

“Lunch is ready.” He slammed a textbook over the stack of papers. The open pages flipped and slid into place to a section about vector quantities.

“Yep, coming.” He jumped up and went out of his room before questions were asked. He grabbed a grilled cheese off of the plate, tossing it with two fingers and licking off the grease.

“Still hot,” she warned. He filled up a glass of water with his free hand and sat at the table.

“You know your dad,” May said in rare comment that made Peter perk, “would toast the bread then add melted cheese on only one side, then dared to call it ‘cheese on toast.’” She took a bite. “I guess that’s because of his British parents, but at the time I was totally weirded out.” Peter smiled and nodded.

“What else did he do?” Peter asked. They rarely had these conversations and he was itching with the opportunity.

“When my sister first introduced him, I was like ‘this guy?’ He seemed so bland. I was used to genius relatives but none of them had ever been stiff. But then all these weird habits started to surface over time. Cheese on toast. Going on bike trips. Flipping out over soccer. Then we hung out with a friend of ours who had a baby and he was crawling on the floor with it and making Sissy go insane.” Peter laughed. “In slacks and a button down,” she added, giggling with him. “By the time they got engaged I didn’t find him bland at all. A bit serious at times, but otherwise, a good guy.” She went back to eating without further comment.

Peter kept chewing, tracing his fingers through some water on the table to make shapes.

“The last year before they were.” They didn’t have to say it; his parents just “were.” She cleared her throat. “He worked late a lot. Your mom was getting concerned. Me too- it’s not uncommon for guys to pull stunts like that, saying it’s work when you have a feeling it’s not.” Peter nodded stiffly. “But then turns out he had been going overtime to get enough money for a vacation.” May smiled. “He was a good guy.”

The vacation where their plane crashed. But Peter hadn’t packed vacation things, he doesn’t remember..

Of course he doesn’t. He never went.

“Thanks for telling me,” he replied, genuinely glad she’d stepped out of her comfort zone about that. May’s expression was warm, but he saw a bit of sadness in her eyes.

“No problem, Petey.” He didn’t object to the nickname.

 

It took ages to fill out that packet. He didn’t even know his social security number or insurance or any of that, so he had to sneak around the house, digging in files to finish filling it out. By the time he was done, he was thoroughly sick of it and more than ready to get it off his hands and into whatever creepy government cabinet it needed to fill. He pulled out his phone and opened Messages.

_ Hey, it’s Peter. I finished with the packet. When/where should I give it to you? _

Looks good.

_ Thanks _ , he added. Send.

Now to wait. He turned up his ringer to full blast and set down his phone. Despite knowing there was no way he could miss it, he found himself flipping his phone over every few minutes. The sooner this is sent in, the sooner he can be back out and legal. When his phone finally buzzed, he dropped the shirt he had been putting away and grabbed it with both hands to read Mrs. Parr’s reply.

_ Dicker’s address is office building A113. Go there and deliver it yourself. Letting that much sensitive material out of your hands isn’t safe. Text again if you have problems! _

That easy?  _ Thanks _ . Send. He put his phone in his pocket and developed his excuse on the way to the door.

“I’ve gotta, uh, drop this off at Ned’s for school. I’ll be back.”

May was sorting clothes on the couch. “Alright.” She tossed a blue blouse onto her shirt stack. “Be careful.”

“I will.” He jogged out the door. The packet was heavy in the bag he had over his shoulder, but it didn’t bother him any.

The walk to Dicker’s building was lost in his thoughts. He arrived there much like a ghost, feeling as if he only existed in his own mind. He was already to the elevator before he realized he didn’t know which room to go to. He backtracked to the secretary who was furiously typing on the arrow keys of his computer. A quick glance at the screen revealed that he was playing an intense game of Galaga.

“Hi,” Peter attempted to grab his attention.

“Hm? Oh!” The screen was minimized with an expert hand and replaced with emails. “Yeah, where to?”

“Dicker.” The man twirled a pen.

“Yeah, level four. He was packing up when they got him back in business. You see something?”

“Uh, no?”

“Last time a kid your age came in here, he didn’t even know where he was when he left. Crazy, huh?” Peter didn’t see how this was supposed to be an engaging conversation, but it certainly made him feel a bit uneasy about all of this government business.

“Yeah, sounds weird. Thanks.” He left Galaga guy, who quickly switched back to his game when Peter turned.

The elevator didn’t give the impression of a high security area. The yellowing carpets were peeling up by the exit and one of the level buttons had been cracked by an angry finger. When he came into the level four hallway, Dicker’s office was labeled by laminated paper and stuck up with tape. Peter knocked, stuffing his free hand in a pocket and continuing to glance around at the cracks in the sideboards. An exhausted old man with a long face and grey hair opened the door. He looked at Peter through hooded eyes.

“Yes?” He gave the impression of a neighbor who hadn’t left his house in years to do anything but check the mailbox.

“Uh… I’m Peter.” He stuck out his hand. “Parker? Uh, I-”

“Right, Bob told me about you.” The older man shook him with his leathery hand. “Dicker. Come on in.”

Peter followed him into his office. The walls were lined with moving boxes. A few were ripped open and lying by and on top of his desk.

“Don’t mind the mess. They cut the program, but then had us all come back when Supers were legalized. I got to be in another government sector for all of two weeks,” Dicker grumbled, moving a stack of folders so he could sit in his chair. Peter sat in the one opposite, scooting to the left so he could see around the box Dicker had placed on his desk.

“I did the paperwork.” Peter pulled the stack out of his bag and offered it to Dicker, who took it in his hands, flipping the pages and mumbling.

“Yep, you did. Gotta file you away-” he peeked at the cover, “Spider-Man?” Peter nodded.

“I stick to walls.”

“No, I figured, just. Whatever.” Dicker turned to a page near the middle and traced the lines with his finger. He didn’t look up when he spoke. “What got you interested in joining in, Spider-Man?”

“Uh, I got my powers and thought helping out would be uh, good. Seeing as I can now, and I couldn’t before, so-” Decker had looked up now.

“Couldn’t?” The word was released slowly.

“Yeah, couldn’t.”

“Where did your powers go?” Dicker let go of his place in the packet.

“Uh, I guess they just weren’t there for a while.” Peter played with a thread on his pants as he spoke. “Mr. Incredible reacted the same way. Guess I’m a special case.” He shrugged, but Dicker didn’t seem satisfied.

“And how did they resurface?”

“They didn’t. They only came to me once,” Peter insisted, increasingly impatient.

“Nothing? Not a memory?” Dickers eyes narrowed.

“No, no memories…” Peter spoke slowly now. He felt the tension in the room change and recognized he was out of his depth in some way. Dicker knew something he didn’t, and Peter needed to discover what. Peter tried to relax his expression. “What kind of memories are we talking, though?”

Dicker must’ve sensed his change in attitude. “None,” he shook his head. “Unusual case.” He dropped the file in the drawer next to him. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Parker. Keep everything under control and I doubt we’ll be needing each other again.”

Peter shifted in the chair. “Yeah, okay.” He offered his hand as he stood, thinking that must be the adult way to approach this. “Nice meeting you.”

Dicker clasped his hand and shook it once, staring at him through hooded eyelids. “Yeah, see ya, kid.”

Peter made it to the doors before he looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Mr. Dicker? I was wondering... “

“Yes?” Dicker’s gaze locked with his and Peter’s hair stood on end at the intensity.

“With… with the…” Peter shook his head. “Nothing, nevermind, forget I- yeah. Bye.” He slipped out of the door before Dicker could respond again.

He kicked the wooden trim with a sneaker. “One question. Just had to ask the one…” He continued to grumble in the elevator and out of the building.

“Remember anything?” The guy from the desk called as Peter pushed open the door.

“Yeah!”

“NEAT!” The door shut.

 

Peter had plenty of time to mull over his thoughts as he swung around the city- legally swung!- and scanned for crime. He helped a dog get its head out from between the bars of a metal fence with the help of olive oil, but the night was otherwise surprisingly uneventful. He was perched on top of a billboard when he spotted a flying bucket on fire.

A what? He had to swoop for a good minute before the wavering image began to take shape. The glint of red metal made it appear totally on fire, but it was just his feet and hands- a flying arsonist? Peter approached, eyeing a cement rooftop to slam him down on. He was proud with the amount of foresight he was taking into not hauling him onto a wooden rooftop, which there aren’t any of to begin with. So much for being a thinking individual, he thought with a twinge of disappointment as he shot out the web that sent the bucket careening toward said rooftop. He landed himself on it, bracing his feet to the ground as he anticipated the bucket man’s impact. To his shock, the web began to yank forcefully as the bucket began gaining altitude again, having avoided the rooftop altogether. Peter’s feet struggled to grip as the line was pulled taught in his hands. Despite having no facial expression, the bucket man seemed to look down at him with disinterest as he aimed a flaming propulsor at the web clinging to his side.

“Sorry, but you’re on fire, and that’s a public hazard!” Peter called out as he sent up a web to attach to the man’s arm.

“Quit, you’re getting all of that shit in my suit!” The man’s voice echoed, amplified somehow by his mask.

“Can you turn off the fire!” Peter called up.

“And fall to my death? Nice try, kid, let me down!”

“I’m twenty-three!” Peter said, intentionally making his voice deeper as he yanked on the web connected to his arm. The sharp motion sent bucket man on a three turn spin before he managed to right himself.

“Hey, what happened to the helium voice? Come on, let up!”

“I won’t let you burn innocents!” Peter continued a strong and stubborn grip on the ground.

“Am I sending the street on a slow cook flying forty yards above them? Oh, my apologies, that completely slipped my mind.” His thrusters burned brighter as he increased his pull. Peter could feel that he was breaking a sweat now.

“I-- won’t-- let-” The line went slack. Peter relaxed as he saw the bucket man ease down, only to be jerked out of his own skin when he suddenly shot up in the air, carrying Peter on his coattails.

“WOAH!” Peter shouted as he was swung towards a building. He bent his knees as he came into contact, running across the side of it before being dragged around the corner and back into the open air. He narrowly avoided slamming into windows by redirecting his path with small lines shot by his free hand. The bucket seemed to grow tired of attempting to slam Peter into various buildings and signs, instead electing to settle on a building. Peter, however, still dangling from the bucket’s leash, was swung into the building’s side with a loud grunt. He quickly scaled the side when he was done mourning the bruising to his left arm and side. As he hauled himself over the edge to stand on the top, he saw bucket man had his arms crossed indignantly.

“Take these off.” he insisted.

“Not until I’m sure you’re not an arsonist.”

“Is this clinging a metaphor for kids these days? Why does anyone procreate? Look, you've gotten all this sticky web crap in my suit and it's going to take ages to scrub it out-”

“It disintegrates after an hour,” Peter retorted, but it's like he hadn't spoken at all.

“What is this stuff even made of? Does this come out of you?” Bucket man prattled on.

“I made it.”

Bucket man only paused for a beat. “Sure you did.”

Peter nods. The goggles on his suit shift like googly eyes, so he reaches up to right them. “Homemade from scratch.”

Bucket man pulls at it for a moment and looks up slowly. “You've got to be kidding.” Peter would bet ten dollars Bucket man is slack jawed; it gives him a brief glow of pride. “The tensile strength is off the charts. Who's your supplier?”

“I just said-”

“Yep, just checking you weren't lying.” Bucket man waved his hand noncommittally. “So why are you riding my legs, then?”

“... You're a fire hazard.” Peter had a hard time explaining that flying around the city seems like prime villain behavior when he's just had a whole conversation with Bucket man ending in no assaults on either end. 'Most people don't fly in a bucket and that's just strange, sir’ didn't roll off the tongue quite right.

“If you can't tell, Einstein, the fire is for flying, so can you get your Science Fair project off of me?”

Peter edged forward, releasing the webbing from his hands to float to the ground. “So… you don't want to fight?”

Bucket man scoffed. “Can’t anyone fly for the view anymore?”

“Nobody-”

“Sure, the Supers did.”

“Not in a bucket,” Peter insisted with mounting annoyance.

“A!” Bucket man stepped forward, gesturing to his metal encasing. “A bucket? This is months of work, this is a pioneering invention of the future!”

“Sorry, it's just kind of clunky, you know? Not meaning to insult the future or anything…” Peter’s hands rose in surrender.

“I’m sure it looks clunky to you, underoos. You've got it all out in the jumpsuit number.” Bucket man rolled a shoulder. “I’m not out here to get anyone, alright? Relax.”

“I can’t trust you. Bucket man.” Peter had his arms crossed firmly and his feet a little farther apart than they needed to be.

“I was actually thinking ‘Iron Man,’ and I wasn’t sure, but now I’ve really got to get you to stop that, okay, so from now on, ‘Iron Man.’ Do we understand each other?”

“Maybe?” Peter wasn’t sure what to do with himself when the opposition was at talkative as he is.

“So are we going to take off this pubescent-” Iron Man yanked at the strand of web.

“Oh my god, who are you?”

“I’m Rated R, nice to meet you. Off,” Iron Man repeated with the same tone as a substitute teacher trying to be authoritative.

“Fine. Okay.” Peter uncrossed his hands, moving forward. “But if I even see five percent of inappropriate behavior-”

“Come on, I’m one hundred percent inappropriate. Maybe you meant aggressive, illegal?” He waved a hand in the air, but Peter spotted the blaster circle on his hand. He stumbled back.

“Is that- Is that a weapon?”

Iron Man let out a defeated sigh. “Calm down, primary colors. It’s for turning.”

Peter cleared his throat. “I meant, ‘I’ll apprehend you in two seconds if you even think of using it.’ Yeah,” he added in a softer voice, impressed with how smooth and not riddled of stutters that was. “Maybe even less than two seconds,” he amended, dripping a solution on his webs.

“Say hi to whoever let you out in your pajamas,” Iron Man snorted, rolling a shoulder. “If they’re hot, say I really said hi.” His hands and feet lifted up in flame as he began to lift up into the sky.

“Don’t be illegal, Iron Man!”

“Alright, good cop.” Peter could faintly hear rock music over the roar of his thrusters as he flew out of sight. He was still trying to make sense of what happened when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to check the shattered screen.

“Hey?” He answered.

“Hey, Peter, it’s Duke. Rehearsal is starting in fifteen minutes and the directors are going to check roll in like two minutes and you know what they do if-”

“Oh, the musical rehearsal, I completely forgot- I’ll- I’ll be there in five! Say I’m in the bathroom!” He yelled as he leaped off the building.

“Dude, what’s that noise?”

“Uh, dishwasher, gotta go, bye!” He ended the call and slipped his phone away mid-swing. That may be the worst excuse, and geez, was he dead.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He'll forever be "Bucket Man" in our hearts. Until next chapter!


End file.
